


Healing Hosea

by TopHatCat



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Hosea whump, Illnesses, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Sickfic, The Early Years - Freeform, The Old Guard - Freeform, and the law and bandits are after them, basically hosea almost dies from pnuemonia, but more ansgt, vandermatthews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHatCat/pseuds/TopHatCat
Summary: “Dutch, he's real warm.”Dutch sat up and put his palm to Hosea's cheek. The older man was hot, very hot, and his skin was flushed. Dutch let out a breath that could have been a weak  laugh. “Son, I think your pa is sick.”1886.  The small family gang is on the run from the law and a bandit with a vendetta, and to top it all off, Hosea's dying.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 94
Kudos: 95





	1. A Passing Thing

**Author's Note:**

> All I'm here to do is post angst, so have some more hardship for Hosea and his family to go through, because apparently that's what I write now. ',:)
> 
> TW Illness: This story deals with characters going through and worrying about an illness. Considering the current times I think it's relevant to warn for this. However, I can assure you this is Angst with a Happy Ending.

Hosea didn't get sick. He simply never came down with a cold or flu like the others did, and because of this, and because he was the most skilled in administering healing, he was the designated caretaker in their little group.

John got sick the most out of the four, or at least he said he did. Arthur would ask if he was just trying to get out of work, and sometimes he was, but other times he was being honest and truly felt under the weather. When John got sick, especially when he was young, Hosea would whip up a stew chock full of herbs, wrap his charge in blankets, and, if John was up to it, played cards or checkers and let the boy win.

Dutch, when an illness struck, swung to one extreme or the other. If they were planning a job, or on the run, he'd ignore the signs and Hosea's concerns, and plow on through fevers and ailments of any kind in pursuit of his goal. However, if they had a lull in work or no one was on their tail...then Dutch gave in completely to the illness. He'd lay in his tent complaining of a headache, a bellyache, that everything was hurting, and Hosea argued that he was more of a child than John was. Dutch also liked to cuddle when he was sick, more than usual, and Hosea had to fairly dodge his grasp while taking care of him.

Arthur never outwardly admitted he was sick. He'd tough it out, quiet and resilient, and didn’t speak a word about how he felt. It took Hosea a little time before he could tell when Arthur felt unwell, but once he could, he'd order the young man to bed at the hint of a fever or flush. Arthur would go, grumbling and relieved. Hosea would read to him, but only if Dutch and John weren't around because Arthur felt a little embarrassed at being treated like a child, even if he enjoyed it.

But Hosea didn't fall ill, even as he treated his family, and so when he became sick, he ignored the signs as a passing thing.

The headache was probably caused by the heat; the unavoidable anxieties of the upcoming robbery no doubt contributed to the twinge in his stomach; the slight tremors of his hand was…well, he passed it off as the drinks from last night, and since he could easily outdraw any lawman (he’d practiced that morning with bottles) Hosea decided not to worry about it. They had a job to do and Dutch was already saddling up.

The job went well, a rather successful bank robbery in a small city, and by late afternoon they were riding back to camp, bags heavy and spirits high.

“Good shooting, Arthur!” Dutch crowed, twisting around to look back over his shoulder. “They didn't stand a chance!”

“John did real good distracting them,” Arthur replied, reaching over and giving the boy a shove. John grinned and tried not to fall off his horse.

“I got a sad face.” He gave an over dramatic frown, causing Dutch and Arthur to laugh. Hosea smiled, but for some reason, couldn't muster up a chuckle. He was feeling a bit dizzy, though if it was from the sun or the job this time, he couldn't say. In addition, his chest felt constricted, like some weight had been put on it. Arthur seemed to notice, but they came upon some horsemen riding toward them at that moment and all were on guard and distracted.

By the time they reached camp, the dizziness had gone from a slight ache in his temple to a feeling in his gut that made the scenery swim more than he cared for. The others dismounted, chatting as Dutch ordered the boys to collect the cash. Patting his horse, Maarav's, neck, Hosea slid from the saddle to the ground. When his boots hit the dust, however, the entire world swayed, there was a drumming in his ears louder than any thunder, and he reached out for anything to steady himself. His hand found Arthur's shoulder, strong and stable, and it reduced the spinning for a moment. When his head cleared enough, he found Arthur looking at him in concern.

“You alright, Hosea?”

He didn't pull away from the conman's grasp, and Hosea smiled gratefully at him, sure he'd fall without Arthur’s support.

“Just unsteady from the ride” he said, and then he fainted.

Dutch turned at Arthur's shout, saw his son catch Hosea as he fell, the shock on the young man's face mirroring the surprise he felt at witnessing the scene. He was at Arthur's side in an instant, assisting in lowering Hosea to the ground, supporting the man's head.

“What happened?” he demanded, gaze switching from Hosea's face to Arthur's equally pale one.

“Don't know.” Arthur's voice was tight. “He said he was unsteady from the ride, and then-.” He gestured weakly.

Dutch slapped Hosea’s cheek gently, then harder, saying, “Hosea? Hosea! Can you hear me?” but all he did was leave a mark, and the man didn’t wake.

“He ain’t responding,” Arthur said, and Dutch glared at the useless report.

“Did he get shot and not say anything?” The outlaw pulled the red scarf from Hosea's neck, almost ripped buttons from cloth to get his shirt open and bare his chest. There was a sheen of sweat across his skin, but no bullet holes or blood marked his body.

“What's wrong with him?” John asked, having joined them by now. “Is he dying?”

“Shut up, he's not dying,” Arthur growled.

“John, go put the money away,” Dutch ordered, eyes not leaving Hosea. 

John didn't move. “But-.”

“John! Put the money away! Now!”

“Go on,” Arthur said, his tone gentler. “Won't be good if anyone sees that paper lying around in the open.”

John went slowly, but he went, and Arthur turned back to find Dutch with his head against Hosea's chest.

“Steady heartbeat,” the outlaw muttered. His hand was now gripping Hosea's tightly.

“Dutch, he's real warm.”

Dutch sat up and put his palm to Hosea's cheek. The older man was hot, very hot, and his skin was flushed. Dutch let out a breath that could have been a weak laugh. “Son, I think your pa is sick.”

If the evidence hadn't been so overwhelming, Arthur would have been doubtful of the claim. “Hosea? Sick?” The words were more of an exclamation than a question.

Dutch shifted his arms under Hosea's back and knees, lifting him with only a little effort. With the conman's form so close now, he could really feel the heat emanating from him, and nearly broke out in a nervous sweat of his own.

“Make sure John did his job properly, and start a fire,” he said. “I'll put him to bed.”

Arthur didn't argue, but his gaze lingered on Hosea's face for a moment before he turned away and Dutch trekked his own path across the campsite.

Hosea liked sleeping out in the open whenever the weather permitted, said the open air and sky stretching overhead was refreshing. Dutch would sometimes ask, “Don't you ever feel lonely, looking up at the darkness?”

Hosea would chuckle at that. “I got the stars for company. And I got you.”

“No stars tonight,” Dutch muttered, passing the man’s bedroll and continuing on toward his own tent. “You’ll get a proper bed.”

Nudging open the tent flap with Hosea's knees, Dutch carried him into the small room, made dim and stuffy by the closed flaps. He got Hosea stretched out on his cot and set about removing his vest, boots and pants to make him more comfortable. Arthur came in as he was piling blankets on their sick friend.

“I got a fire going,” the young outlaw said. “What now?”

“I guess I don't know,” Dutch said, removing his hat and hanging it on a chair that he then sank into. “I haven't done this much.”

“Yeah, he's generally the one taking care of us,” Arthur noted, motioning towards Hosea. “We'll just do for him what he does for us.”

“Food, then,” Dutch said. “Hot food. Stew. Add some of those herbs he's always going on about- I know he's been teaching you about them.”

Arthur nodded and left again, and Dutch turned his full attention back to Hosea. He was just as hot, perhaps more so, he'd begun to shiver, cold in the midst of fever. Dutch's hand burrowed under the covers, found Hosea's and squeezed it. He pulled the chair nearer, leaned down to press his lips softly to the conman's temple. This close he could feel Hosea's staggered breaths, his heartbeat, and see the flutter of his eyelids in a dream, or a nightmare.

“Come on, darlin’,” Dutch whispered, “Wake up for me.”

He didn't wake up, not all that evening, so they couldn't feed him, but they got him to swallow some water; only a little for fear of drowning him. The conman’s breath was raspy, painfully loud and coarse in the closeness of the tent, and he shook with hoarse coughs. Eventually Dutch kicked the boys out, saying their hovering would do nothing, so John went to bed and Arthur went on watch, and Dutch sat next to Hosea with worry keeping him alert and awake.

Dutch didn't like thinking about the end. He didn't care for the idea that this, all of this, would be gone one day with no way to stop it ending, and that scared him. Hosea was the constant in Dutch's life: a steady hand and calm voice, and Dutch felt suddenly robbed, like this illness had a vendetta against them. He felt afraid.

This dismal train of thought was interrupted by the tent flap being pushed back, and John's small face peering in, hesitant to enter.

“Dutch?”

The name was whispered, and the outlaw motioned for the boy to come in. John crept past the flap, a teddy bear clutched in his arms. He rarely admitted to owning the toy, as the others sometimes teased him for it, but Dutch couldn’t blame him for wanting to hold onto something now.

“How is he?”

Dutch glanced at Hosea, as if he hadn't kept his eyes on the man the entirety of the evening. Not much had changed and Dutch worried, but he said nothing of his fears to John and instead patted his knee. The boy who accepted the invitation with only a little surprise. He climbed into Dutch's lap, still small and light despite his thirteen years, and rested his head on the outlaw's shoulder.

“He's 'bout the same,” Dutch said quietly. “But he's not getting worse.”

“Good,” John murmured, his voice sleepy now. Lifting the hand that wasn't holding Hosea's, Dutch ran his fingers through John's dark locks, feeling the boy relax under the soothing touch. In a short time, he was asleep, his breaths soft and small on Dutch's neck. Dutch kept gently running his hand over John's hair, the action as comforting to the man as it was to the boy.

When Arthur checked up on them in the cool hours before dawn, he found Dutch's head tipped back, snoring with mouth open, one arm holding John to his chest and the other still reaching to grasp Hosea's hand. Arthur moved first to the older man, checking his breathing, which was somewhat quieter, and as he knelt by the cot, he felt Dutch stir beside him.

“Okay?” the outlaw croaked in a voice hoarse with sleep.

“Still alive,” Arthur whispered. 

Dutch shifted, wincing at the stiffness of his body. “Take your brother,” he said, and Arthur rose to take John in his arms, making sure to keep hold of the teddy bear.

“You gotta get some more rest, Dutch,” the young man said. “I'll sit with him.”

“You have to stay on watch.” Dutch stretched his arms and cracked his neck. “Won't do any good to have anyone sniffing out that money with no gun to watch out for them.”

“Won't do any good to have you so tired that you can't shoot anyone if they do show up,” Arthur said boldly, and Dutch seemed about to glare, but then a chuckle escaped his throat instead.

“You sound like Hosea.” Leaning down to kiss said man's forehead, Dutch got to his feet. “Alright, put John to bed and then I'll go sit out and keep watch.” He stopped Arthur's retort with a lifted hand. “I won't be able to sleep, but at least I'll get some sun, since you insist on my well-being.”

Arthur nodded and went out to put John on his bedroll in the boys' tent, then took a cup of coffee and his journal, managed to kick Dutch out, and took the chair beside Hosea's sickbed. Opening the journal, he found his mind too distracted for writing and began to doodle. He sketched Dutch’s new gramophone, a tree he recalled from memory, and Hosea, but he drew the man sitting beside a fire, cleaning his hunting rifle. He sketched to stave off worry and wondering if they’d fall apart if Hosea died.

As if the universe wanted to momentarily quell his fears, the conman suddenly coughed quietly and Arthur snapped his journal shut. Leaning over, he whispered, “Hosea?”

Another cough and then a small groan accompanied Hosea’s eyes opening, and he tried to lift a hand only to find it trapped under the heavy blankets with the rest of him.

“Don’t try to get up now.” Arthur’s hand pressured gently on the older man’s shoulder. “How you feel?”

Hosea croaked out a sound, coughed, and said, “Water… Ya know when Maarav bucked and got you in the chest?”

Arthur hopped up to grab the tin cup of water Dutch had left by the bed. “Yeah?”

“Like that, but worse.”

Arthur returned to the bedside, realized he’d likely drown Hosea if he was lying down, and helped the conman sit up slowly, so as not to spin his head. He debated handing the cup to Hosea, but the sick man’s hands were shaking so much he settled for both of them holding the tin as Hosea took a few sips. He choked on it after a few swallows and had to catch his breath, bent over Arthur’s knee as the young outlaw ran a hand across his back and thought about how much he hated seeing his father like this.

“Dutch’ll be glad you’re awake,” he said when Hosea could breathe again. “He’s been real worried.”

“Woulda thought he’d be annoyed, ‘specially after we just pulled a job.” Hosea leaned back into the pillow and let his eyes close. “I suppose he’s just happy I didn’t get shot, though maybe that would’ve been a simpler event to deal with.”

Arthur knew he was teasing, but he shook his head anyway. “We was all glad you weren’t shot, ‘Sea. If ya had been….” He trailed off and Hosea’s fingers found his arm and squeezed it lightly.

“I think it’s all a big plan by Dutch to get me into his bed permanently.”

Arthur laughed and blushed at that and decided if Hosea could crack such a joke, then he was certainly on the mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh heh yeah...he'll be fiiiine.... :|
> 
> Maarav is a Jewish name meaning 'West' or 'Western'.


	2. Red Jackson

Late morning found Hosea asleep again, wearied by even a small interaction. Arthur had nearly dozed off himself when Dutch was suddenly in the entrance to the tent, a pistol in his hand and a warning in his eyes.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, sitting forward, and the outlaw glanced back over his shoulder before replying.

“Some of Red Jackson’s men. John saw them coming across the plain from town.”

Arthur’s heart leapt toward his throat at the bandit’s name, but he kept his cool, rising to his feet. “Here?”

“No, but they will be soon.” Dutch’s gaze was on Hosea. “Someone musta told them which way we headed after leaving town.”

“Where’s John? What’s the plan?”

“John’s getting the money and going. We’re meeting him at Dredger’s Crossing when we’ve taken care of our friends.” Dutch took another look out the tent flap. “We can’t take ‘em on in camp; we gotta get into the ravine and force them to come at us one at a time.”

“Can’t we just run-?”

“You want Red Jackson’s bandits tracking us?”

Arthur swallowed his argument. “But-how do we get Hosea into the ravine?”

Dutch’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “We don’t.”

“We-.” Arthur’s blue-green eyes were bursting with confusion. “You saying we leave him?”

“Look, son,” Dutch said, “I ain’t got much of a plan, but we also ain’t got much time.” The outlaw reached out, his hand heavy on Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

Arthur drew in a breath, eyes flickering to Hosea’s inert form before they met Dutch’s forceful gaze again. “Yeah, I trust you, Dutch. What are we gonna do?”

The beat of hooves reached their ears then, and the outlaw’s fingers pressured almost painfully into the young outlaw’s muscle. “Get your revolver; right now, we run.”

Dutch grabbed Arthur’s satchel and they fled the tent as Red Jackson’s men rounded the rocky hill the camp was set up behind. The bandit in the lead gave a shout at the sight of the two men dashing toward the cliffside, calling, “Stop!”

Of course they didn’t listen, and bullet’s peppered the dust as they crossed the open dry area that separated the camp from the ravine.

“Don’t let ‘em have it, Arthur!” Dutch yelled, waving satchel in the air as they ran. At the cliff wall they slipped into the narrow crack in the stone, safe from the shower of bullets, but not out of danger yet. Arthur wasn’t sure just how far back the fissure went, but they ran for a good minute in the cool shadows before Dutch finally came to a stop around a sharp bend. Arthur staggered to a halt behind him, the walls almost too close on either side to stand side by side. Resting hands on his knees, he gasped, “You think they’ll ignore camp and come after us?”

“I’m hoping they’ll think everything of value is in here,” Dutch replied through quick breaths, holding up the satchel he’d brought with them. He tossed it to Arthur and looked around. “This is as good a place as any to make a stand; there’s enough rocks hanging overhead to stop ‘em from shooting from above.”

“Van der Linde, we know you’re in there!” came a voice, uncomfortably close, “We just want to talk! Oh, and we want your money!” 

Dutch waved Arthur farther down the ravine. A few steps later the crevice widened and both men ducked down behind fallen rocks, guns poised and ready.

The first shot was Arthur’s, and it blew through the enemy’s hat, and his head. Bullets were sent in return after that, but Red’s men were bottle-necked in the narrow gap, just as Dutch had planned, and one by one they fell, their limp bodies only making it more difficult for the bandits to advance.

When the return fire ended, Arthur’s first hope was that they were all dead, but his logic soon caught up. “We only dropped four of them,” he noted, reloading his revolver again. “There was at least eight.”

“Seven.” Dutch straightened up from behind his hiding spot, but didn’t holster his guns. “Either they’re trying from above, they’re waiting for us to come out, or….”

“Or they went back to camp.” Arthur’s throat was uncomfortably tight. “You think they’ll find Hosea?”

Dutch was moving farther back down the ravine. “Come on; we need to find a way up.”

A steep but rough part of the wall was their way to the top, where water had eroded the stone enough to create natural hand and footholds. Arthur’s hat wasn’t blown off when he raised it above the edge, and his eyes scrutinized a windswept, cactus-covered but otherwise empty plateau when he pulled himself up a few inches more.

“They ain’t here.”

“Then get on up there, son!” Arthur scrambled over the edge, turning around to haul Dutch up so they both stood in the open. “We move to the edge,” Dutch said, “And keep quiet now.”

They went back the way they had come, this time on the top of the ravine rather than in it, and when they neared the bluff’s end, the two men went down on their stomachs and crawled to the lip of the rock. From this vantage point they could see the ravine entrance, which was being guarded by a single man, and the camp several yards out. In between the two areas stood the other bandits with their horses, conferring.

“You see Red down there?” Dutch asked in a low tone. Arthur pulled the pair of binoculars from his satchel and peered down, careful not to catch the light with the glass.

“Nope. Maybe he ain’t a part of this attack.”

“His mistake.” Dutch wriggled backwards away from the edge before standing. “These men are a bunch of idiots. Come on; we’ll deal with them quick.”

The two crept along the cliff edge to a rocky area a little ways away where they could descend without falling to their deaths. As they picked their way over the boulders and stones, trying not to let pebbles skitter down the incline, Arthur worried that they were taking too long. If the men decided to investigate the camp in more depth than a cautious once-over, they’d find Hosea in an instant. Best case scenario, they’d use him as a hostage, worst…he’d be dead before Dutch or Arthur could make any sort of move.

This thought hastened Arthur’s footsteps, his boots kicking a slew of tiny rocks down the hill, and Dutch held out an arm, a warning on his face. Heartbeat picking up, Arthur cast a look at the men, but they were a good distance away, and the mishap had gone unnoticed.

Dutch led them to cover behind a medium-sized boulder, just big enough for the two of them. The outlaw didn’t speak, but motioned to a second rock a few yards away, this one positioned slightly behind the group of enemy bandits. Eyeing the men, Arthur waited until they were all looking away before cutting across the openness and sliding into cover, pistol in hand. He peeked over the boulder and found the men still immersed in conversation, no doubt debating whether to enter the ravine again or not. Little did they know they wouldn’t find their quarry there any longer.

Behind the other boulder, Dutch gave a small nod and flicked his pistol toward the men. Arthur returned the gesture and rose to his feet, setting off his gun before ducking back into cover again. The bullet missed, whistling past one of the men’s shoulders, but it got their attention. Immediately they drew their own weapons, slow in response to the unexpected attack.

Arthur stood, shot, and hid again, then glanced over at Dutch. True to his nature, the man was barely even utilizing the cover of his boulder, half exposed as he used both Scofield revolvers to shoot at the bandits. The men returned fire eagerly now, and Arthur hissed out a curse when he realized they were using the horses as shields. Half rising, he tried to aim, but the frightened horses were jumping and moving, held in place by their reins, and he hesitated to fire.

“Damn bastards,” he muttered, glaring as the bandits purposely put their animals in harm’s way.

“You gonna help me, Arthur?” Dutch yelled, and the young man quickly squeezed off a shot that grazed a bandit’s shoulder. “Try to do some damage, please?”

Despite the bullets being traded back and forth, neither side was clearly winning, and Arthur’s next worry became the number of bullets he and Dutch had. Dutch had felled one of the bandits, sent him screaming to the ground with a bullet to the neck, and one of his companions shot him in the head to end his suffering, but beyond that, the shots found their way into to the ground and ricocheted off stone; Arthur knew it wouldn’t be long until this standoff ended, and probably not in his side’s favor.

A screech echoed in his ear and he flinched as a bullet missed his head by centimeters. It hit the rock near his hand, sending chips of stone flying, and he realized it had come from behind. He whipped around, gun at the ready, and found a man reining in a horse behind him, pistol trained on Arthur’s head.

“Son, you shoot me and you’re as good as dead too,” the bandit warned. “Now drop that gun.”

Arthur hesitated a fraction of a second, saw the man’s trigger finger pull back, and let his revolver drop to the dusty ground.

“Dutch!” he yelled, slowly raising his hands in the air, and he heard the gunfire behind him stop.

“Mister van der Linde!” Red Jackson called, keeping Arthur at bay, “Lay down your weapons, sir, like your boy here was so wise to do for me!”

Arthur felt a flush spread across his face. Angry at himself for being caught off guard, he was glad he couldn’t see Dutch’s face at the moment, not wanting to see the disappointment undoubtedly painting his features.

“Mister Jackson,” Dutch said as one of the bandits hurried over to cover him. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”

“Nothing misunderstood about it.” Red got off his horse as another man took charge of Arthur. “You have money; I want it.”

Dutch let out a laugh. “Stealing another man’s hard-earned funds? A man with a family to feed and clothe? You wouldn’t sink that low; I know you, Red; you have standards.”

Red’s face darkened under his beard. “You knew we was planning on hitting that bank, Dutch. You and your little family just happened to clean it out the day before we get there? Unlikely.” He held out his hand and one of the two remaining bandits passed over Arthur’s satchel. The young man watched as Red dug around for a moment before looking back to Dutch. He shook the bag. “Where is it?”

“Oh, you ask questions I can’t answer, sir,” Dutch replied, and the bandit at his side smacked the back of the outlaw’s head.

“Answer, van der Linde!”

“Enough, Billy.” Red tossed the satchel away and holstered his pistol. “Bring ‘em to their camp; we’ll question them good and proper.”

Arthur tried to catch Dutch’s eye as they were led back toward their tents, but the outlaw didn’t meet his gaze, looking everywhere but his own tent and Arthur’s anxious face. The young outlaw swallowed and tried to put on the same cool, unamused expression as his mentor, but felt he just looked constipated.

The bandits tied their wrists and pushed them to their knees beside the campfire as Red stood, arms crossed, directly in front of Dutch’s tent, the flaps being the only thing separating him from Hosea. Arthur’s heart rose to his throat every time the canvas stirred in the breeze, and he was sure his eyes were boring holes in the cloth; he felt that even if he thought too hard about Hosea, Red might decide to check inside the tent.

The bandit leader, however, did not pay the slightest bit of attention to the concealed room where Hosea lay, and said instead,

“So, you fellows going to talk, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

“What you offer as the easy way still hurts me,” Dutch replied, and Red grinned.

“Oh, I know.” Looking around, he took stock of the area, the horses, and frowned. “Heard you had three folks helping you with that bank job. Send the other two off with the spoils, then?” He faced Dutch again. “Talk.”

“They’re long gone, Red,” Dutch said. He shifted position and Billy lifted a precautionary gun toward the outlaw’s head. “You won’t find them or the money, I’m afraid.”

“Always so charismatic, aren’t you, Dutch?” Red said, anger lacing his tone. “Never fearing death, even when you’re on your knees.”

“Oh, I am afraid of death,” Dutch replied, dark eyes becoming even darker. “Every man is afraid of death, and if he says he’s not, then he’s lying to himself. What I ain’t afraid of, Mister Jackson, is you.”

Red’s brow furrowed, and he looked like he might strike Dutch, but he just shook his head. “Maybe I need to give you a reason to be afraid of me.” He jerked his chin at one of his men and the bandit pressed the barrel of his rifle to the side of Arthur’s head. He let out a hiss of breath, chills running over his entire body as the metal dug into his skin.

“How do you feel about your boy’s brains splattered all over you?” Red asked, and Arthur gritted his teeth against the panic building in his chest. “What sort of fear does that make you feel?”

Dutch didn’t reply, and his silence made Arthur sweat more than the gun at his head did. It wouldn’t do any good to panic; he had to trust Dutch to get them out of this now with his fancy words. He just hoped they were good ones. Trying to keep his emotions under control, Arthur lifted his gaze up to Red, but the bandit only had eyes on Dutch.

A mistake which kept him from noticing the movement behind him.

Arthur felt a rush of terrified exhilaration upon seeing Hosea step out between the canvas flaps, cattleman revolver in each hand. He was wearing nothing but his shirt and underwear, but that didn’t matter when he aimed one gun at the man by Arthur and rested the other against the back of Red’s skull. Billy made a noise, but it was too late by then; Hosea cocked his guns with a click and Red froze.

“Tell your boys to back off, slowly now,” the conman said, “Do that, and perhaps _your_ brain won’t be blown to pieces.”

“Easy now,” Red said. “I got a gun on your young man here.”

“I’ve got one you,” Hosea responded. “And I sure as hell can pull this trigger just as fast as your man can pull his.”

Red chuckled, but it was strained. “You put me in quite the predicament then, Mister Matthews.”

A tense silence fell over the group. The liberation Arthur had felt when seeing Hosea emerge was quickly diminishing; he could see the sheet of sweat on his father’s skin, the way his hands shook around the guns. He could only hope that Red didn’t notice this weakness too.

It seemed the bandit did not. He nodded curtly to the man by Arthur and the gun was lowered from his head, prompting a sigh of relief that whistled out his nose. He wanted to get to his feet, and could see Dutch itching to do the same, but they were still surrounded, not to mention bound.

“Alright, Red,” Hosea said, “I need you to untie my friends, and tell your men to drop their weapons. If you do, I promise you won’t have to die today.”

Red obviously wrestled with himself for a moment, but then growled, “Do as he says.”

Arthur couldn’t help but grin as the ropes around his wrists were loosened. As the man worked on the knot, Hosea urged Red forward with his gun. “I’m going to need you to sit down, right over-.”

Suddenly the conman coughed and swayed on his feet, staggering back a step and looking like he would collapse. In an instant Red had spun around, catching hold of the gun and trying to pull it out of Hosea’s grasp.

Dutch, his hands already free, surged forward, wrapping his arms around Red’s middle and sending himself, the bandit, and Hosea to the ground. Once down, the outlaw began whaling on his opponent’s head and shoulders with his fists.

Red’s men were scrambling for their weapons and Arthur didn’t know what to do. His bonds were not fully untied, and his arms were trapped uselessly behind his back. He settled for kicking out at the man next to him, sending the bandit crashing to the ground. Feeling a lot like a fish flopping around out of water, Arthur tossed his weight on the man, trying to get a kick to his head.

That still left one bandit however, Billy, and as Arthur struggled, he saw the man grab for his discarded rifle.

“Dutch!” Arthur yelled, unable to stand up fast enough, let alone take out the bandit. “ _Dutch_!”

The outlaw hardly cast a look over his shoulder before he’d thrown himself on Hosea, covering the conman’s body with his own, scrabbling for the dropped cattleman.

There was a bang and Arthur’s heart stopped, but then Billy’s hand went to his middle and he keeled over, landing heavy in the dirt. Kneeing his man hard in the head, Arthur looked over to the others. Dutch still had his arms wrapped around Hosea, and the conman had his arm outstretched past the outlaw, his second revolver aimed at where Billy had stood. Red was out cold on the ground beside them.

“Jeezus,” Arthur said, awkwardly getting to his feet and going to stand over the two. “Could that have been any messier?”

Hosea’s arm dropped and his head tipped back in exhaustion, breaths rattling in his lungs, and Dutch pushed himself up and off the conman. Running a hand through his hair, he observed the scene.

“We’re alive,” he said, “That’s what’s important.”

“And they didn’t get the money,” Arthur noted.

“And that,” Dutch agreed, turning his attention to Hosea. “Thank you, friend. Arthur and I didn’t quite have control over that situation.”

“I could see that,” Hosea wheezed, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Will there ever be a day you boys don’t need my help?”

"Probably not,” Dutch chuckled, getting to his feet. “But for just having won a gunfight, you don’t look so good. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Hosea allowed himself to pulled to his feet, but was shaking his head as it happened. “Jackson doesn’t ride with only these men. More are bound to show up before long, or the law will, after all that shooting. Where’s John?”

“Safe,” Dutch was quick to assure. “Went on ahead with the money. I guess we’d better go meet him instead of stayin’ here.”

“Don’t bother grabbing everything,” Hosea said. “Just what’s important.” He made to go into the tent, but Dutch kept a firm grasp on his arm.

“Whoa there, girl. You set yourself right here and watch this fellow.” He kicked in Red’s direction. “Make sure he stays asleep while Arthur and I pack up.”

“You expect me to ride off without my pants?” Hosea replied, sounding annoyed even as his face exhibited relief at being able to sit down again.

“I’ll get you your pants,” Dutch said in a no-nonsense tone. “Arthur, get the horses ready, would you?” He put the back of his hand to Hosea’s forehead, ignoring the other man’s grumble.

“Uhh.” The young man twisted his shoulders. “I’m still tied up, Dutch.”

“Ah, apologies.” Dutch unsheathed his knife and held it out, eyes still on Hosea. Arthur let out a sigh, staring bleakly at what was being offered to him.

“Dutch.”

The older man finally looked up and huffed out a laugh when he realized his mistake. “Sorry, son,” he said as he hacked at the ropes. “There- go get those horses and grab your things. We’ll be ready when you are.”

Arthur dropped the bindings to the ground and retrieved his guns before heading toward where the horses were hitched; the animals were still shifting nervously after all the gunfire. As he went, he heard Dutch ask, “You gonna be able to ride?”

“Guess we’ll see,” came Hosea’s reply, very soft, like he didn’t want Arthur to hear. The young man’s stomach twisted a little at the answer and he focused on the animals to distract himself, using his whispers and pets as a comfort to himself as much as them. The sooner they left, the sooner they’d find John, get the money, and be able to set up a new camp. Then Hosea could rest and everything would be fine…. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was never supposed to be a 'villain' in this story. Then Red happened and I just rolled with it and now he's a thing.


	3. The Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon that Dutch has called Hosea 'old girl' from day one. It started as a joke because Hosea's years older, but morphed into a term of endearment over time.

Less than half an hour after the skirmish, Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur were saddled up and riding out, leaving Red Jackson tied up and hollering against a gag amidst the abandoned tents.

“Maybe the law will find him before his men do,” Dutch said hopefully as they rode away, heading southeast to follow the trail John went down a few hours ago. “One can only pray.”

“I’m praying we get to John quick,” Hosea said from where he was sitting half slumped over in Maarav’s saddle. He looked awful to Arthur’s eyes, pale and haggard in appearance, though he spurned the offer of riding with Arthur on his palomino mare, Jalapeno. “How far to this crick of yours, Dutch?”

“If we push, we could get there before noon.” Dutch reached down to pat María’s neck, and the black mare nickered at the touch. “Don’t think we’ll need to stop for the horses.”

“Think John made it there without any trouble?” Arthur voiced, and Dutch made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“A little positivity, Arthur.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and fell quiet.

They spent the next several miles in silence but for a few words swapped here and there about the countryside, which had turned from rocky bluffs to open and rolling, or to warn about other riders. They encountered few people on the road, mostly farmers or the odd lone traveler. Dutch attempted conversation once or twice, but Arthur was too busy watching Hosea, who looked like he was just barely managing to keep his balance in the saddle.

After a few hours, the conman coughed out, “Dutch, I need to stop.”

They had come up to a spot where the road split into a Y shape, spearing off into the distance in two directions. A signpost at the convergence named the destination each path went toward: one of the painted boards pointed toward the town of Mill’s Creek while the other read: Dredger’s Crossing.

“We’re nearly there,” Dutch replied, twisting around to look at his partner. “Less than an hour now; see those trees in the distance? The bridge is there, and then we’ll rest. Can you go that far, old girl?”

Hosea just nodded, breaths coming sharp and uneven, as they had the night before. The three started up again, but before even ten minutes had passed, Hosea’s wheezing had turned to harsh coughing, each rough exhalation so intense that it hurt Arthur’s throat just to hear them. When the coughs were coming only seconds apart, Dutch reined in María, sliding from the saddle and crossing to Maarav. He gripped Hosea’s leg and held up his canteen as Arthur watched nervously.

“Hosea. Drink.”

The conman accepted the canteen and lifted it to his mouth between coughs, but the moment he swallowed, his lungs forced it back up his throat and he bent double, spitting water onto Maarav’s shoulder and Dutch’s sleeve. As he coughed, sputtering and breathless, the canteen dropped to the ground and his hand spasmed to the outlaw’s wrist, gripping it.

“Dutch,” he wheezed faintly, eyes becoming wide and terrified as another multitude of coughs racked his body, this time coming in such close succession that Arthur wondered how he had any air left in his lungs.

The conman didn’t have any, it seemed, and Arthur cried out, “Christ- Dutch, he’s suffocating!”, practically leaping out of the saddle as he watched Hosea’s face slowly turn blue.

Dutch was already getting Hosea off his horse as Arthur ran around Maarav’s head, and they both eased the conman down to sit on the dusty road. One of Hosea’s hands gripped the front of his coat, the other twisted into Dutch’s sleeve as he stared at nothing, battling against the obstruction in his lungs.

“What do we do?” Arthur asked, fear beginning to take over his own thoughts. He felt powerless, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he faced this invisible foe. There was nothing to punch or to shoot, and tears sprang to the young man’s eyes as Hosea’s coughs became fainter, broken up by periods where air failed to enter or leave the conman’s lungs, forcing him into fits of gagging that shook his entire body.

“Hosea, Hosea, look at me,” Dutch said, his tone stern with just the faintest hint of a waver. The conman lifted his gaze, teary and ashen faced; his mouth was wide, stretched in an O, traces of blood staining his lips. “Deep breaths, as deep as you can, okay? Through your nose if it helps. I’m going to hit your back.”

Hosea nodded weakly and Dutch put one hand on the conman’s shoulder to keep him from pitching forward as he began planting solid blows on his back, one after the other in a measured rhythm. Arthur hung back, twisting his neckerchief over and over in his hands, knowing he should watch the road but unable to tear his eyes from the two men on the ground.

Dutch kept up the measured strikes just below Hosea’s shoulder blades, murmuring soothing words as the conman fought to keep his coughs deep and controlled. It seemed to take ages, but at some point his inhalations were almost equal to the exhalations, and as Hosea’s coughs died, replaced by faint gasps and wheezes, Dutch switched to rubbing slow circles on his partner’s back.

Finally, Hosea released his death grip on Dutch’s sleeve, sinking against the outlaw’s chest in exhaustion. Dutch ceased his ministrations and tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, gently wiping away the blood, spit, and mucus around Hosea’s mouth.

“You alive there?” he asked tenderly, and Hosea couldn’t do much more than nod against the shoulder he rested on. Even from where Arthur stood, it was obvious he had begun to shake with fever again.

“What do we do?” the young man whispered, not trusting his voice to remain steady. Dutch’s teeth bit down hard on his bottom lip, thinking, as he stroked his hand up and down Hosea’s arm. The conman was only half-conscious now and, while he was breathing again, he drew in air with a wet, choked sound.

“We need a doctor,” the outlaw decided after a few moments of deliberation. “Mill’s Creek. It was only a few miles from the signpost we passed.”

“What about John?” Arthur thought about the boy, who was probably waiting anxiously at the bridge, wondering when, or if, the rest of his family would join him. “He ain’t got no idea what’s going on here.”

“That’s why you’re going to go get him.” Dutch shook Hosea gently, urging him awake. “I’ll get Hosea to town and you meet us there.”

“And the money?” Arthur released his sweaty neckerchief, moving to assist Dutch in getting Hosea to his feet. The conman leaned heavily on the other man, looking like he would collapse any second. “Riding into town with all that….”

“Hide it.” Dutch whistled and María walked over from where she had been patiently waiting. Pulling himself into the saddle, he got Hosea seated in front of him with Arthur’s help. Wrapping a strong arm around the conman’s torso, he looked down at the young man who stood forlornly in the road wearing eyes large with worry. “Bring only enough to pay for a doctor.”

“Don’t let him die,” Arthur begged, sounding like the innocent child he’d never had the chance to be.

“You underestimate him,” Dutch chided, his voice rough and kind. “We’ll see you at Mill’s Creek.”

With a flick of the reins, María set off at a trot down the road, back the way they had just come. Arthur watched them until he couldn’t make out the stripes on Dutch’s shirt, then took Maarav’s reins in hand and mounted Jalapeno again.

“Come on,” he encouraged the horses, “Let’s go find John.”

Maarav was reluctant to follow at first, confused by the sudden separation from his rider, but Arthur’s soft tone and a pat on the neck got him moving, willingly following along beside Jalapeno as Arthur drove the two horses onward toward Dredger’s Crossing.

Left alone with no one else to fill the silence, Arthur’s thoughts soon became the loudest noise on his ride to the bridge. Usually he was quite happy to be alone with himself and the horses; no matter how much he loved his family, their antics could become overwhelming at times, driving him out into the peace and quiet of nature. Now, however, his thoughts spiraled dangerously into the realm of pessimism and gloom. All he could think about was how long it was taking to get to John, how much longer it would be before they got to town, and what sort of state Hosea would be in upon their arrival.

_‘Dead. He could be dead.’_

The idea slipped from Arthur’s brain to his heart, twisting wickedly in his chest until his entire body felt heavy. Focusing on Jalapeno helped; he concentrated on the way the reins felt in his hands, her warm horse smell, and the bob of her head before his eyes. Grounding himself in the real world always saved him from slipping too far into anxiety, and he carefully maneuvered himself away from a panic attack.

So intent was he on strengthening his spirit that he didn’t notice he’d reached the bank of the river until the crossing was right in front of him. Reining in Jalapeno and by extension Maarav, he looked around the area. Trees grew here, big oaks that stood all along the bank and stretched onward into a forest on the opposite side of the river. Unused to the dim, dappled light after the bright sun, Arthur squinted, searching for John’s horse, Buckwheat, but could see anything living but for the trees and a few red squirrels. Dismounting, he brought the horses forward to the beginning of the bridge and looped Maarav’s lead around the first post.

“John?” he said, then after no response came, called louder, “Hey, John! It’s Arthur!”

There was a scraping sound down and to the left, and Arthur peered around Jalapeno to see John’s head pop up over the side of the bridge. “Arthur!”

“What are you doing under there, kid?” Arthur asked, and the boy’s face disappeared. A moment later he reappeared at the bank, leading Buckwheat out from underneath the bridge and up the muddy slope.

“Hiding!” John replied, irritated. “What took you so long?!” He seemed then to realize his brother was alone, for his anger faded a bit and he turned his gaze to Maarav. “Where’s Hosea? And Dutch?” His eyes snapped back to Arthur. “What happened?”

“A lot,” Arthur replied. “Where’s the money?”

“There.” John pointed to Buckwheat’s saddlebag and Arthur crossed to it, taking the canvas sack out and rifling through it. “I knew something bad happened!”

“You’re not wrong.” Pulling out what he assumed to be enough for a doctor, Arthur stuffed the bills into his pocket and rolled up the top of the bag again. Ignoring John’s questions, he went to the spot the boy had just emerged from, ducking under the bridge and looking for a gap, a hole, anywhere the money would fit. Running his hand over the beams holding the structure up, he found the wood was slightly separated from the boards above and shoved the bag in that space, making sure the end didn’t unroll. A thumping overhead told him John was stamping on the bridge, and he rejoined the boy on top.

“I’ll tell ya, just calm down!” Arthur growled, approaching the bridge from various directions, making sure the money was properly concealed, even if someone decided to water their horse at the bank. “Get on Buckwheat, we gotta go.”

Instead, John followed him across the river as he checked the hiding place from that angle. “What, Arthur?” the boy asked, grabbing his brother’s arm this time. “Tell me! You’re being mean! Did Hosea die? Is that why you have Maarav? Did Dutch have to stay behind and bury him?”

The anger building in Arthur dissipated like steam at the specificity of the questions. He turned to face John, recognizing the dread that must have been growing in the boy the entire time he was alone out here waiting, not knowing if anyone was coming for him. Perhaps, like Arthur, he’d wondered over and over if Hosea was dead…if they all were. Releasing any lingering annoyance in a sigh, Arthur put a hand on John’s shoulder as the boy stared up at him with a furrowed brow.

“He ain’t dead. Not yet at least. He had a…fit and Dutch took him to town to find a doctor.”

“Are we followin’ them?”

Arthur nodded. Satisfied with the location of the money, he started back across the bridge, John taking two steps for each of his hurried strides. They mounted up, Arthur taking Maarav’s reins again, and the horses headed down the road at a fast pace. John questioned relentlessly, wanting to know everything that had happened, and Arthur did his best to reply without snapping out the answers; it wasn’t the kid’s fault he was curious. After all, he hadn’t been there.

“Enough questions,” he said after a while, impatience and worry spurring him on like a switch to a horse’s back. “Get that horse moving; let’s drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the bear hunting mission in-game? Well, I always buy the little palomino horse and name her/him Jalapeno.
> 
> Also, Dutch's horse in this is named Maria because I mostly listen to 'Maria' by Hwasa on repeat while writing this fic. Why that song, you ask? I have no clue, it just somehow became the song I have on repeat and now I'm stuck with it (even though it doesn't fit at all).


	4. Mills Creek

Late afternoon was upon them when Mills Creek came into view over a low hill. The place was small and, true to its name, home to several mills. The acres surrounding the town were wheat fields, golden grass that Arthur and John rode through as they approached the first farmhouses at the edge of town. The water mill was loud to their right as they entered, the giant wooden wheel turning creakily in the river to power the grindstone within. Workers moved here and there, carrying bags of flour and driving carts filled with wheat to storage sheds. The two boys stopped one of these workers to ask the way to the doctor. The man pointed the way, gave a few street names, and soon Jalapeno, Buckwheat and Maarav were trotting into the business district of Mills Creek.

The center of town was little more than a single street boasting almost every storefront in the small village. The doctor’s office was squeezed between the general store and barbershop, featuring a modest front that simply read ‘Doctor’ in white lettering. Across the street and a few buildings down was the jailhouse, and Arthur was careful to avoid riding past it, lest they or their horses be recognized. He brought Jalapeno to a halt on the opposite end of the street, hitching her and Maarav to a post outside the hotel just around the corner. As John secured Buckwheat, Arthur moved to the end of the street and looked about.

There were few people about; most likely the majority of the town was busy at the mills this time of day. A pair of women strolled the boardwalk by the general store and a drunken fellow was sitting in the dirty street by the corner saloon’s front steps, but otherwise everything was quiet. He’d seen María tied up outside the doctor’s right away, but there was no sign of Dutch.

“They’re probably inside,” Arthur said as John joined him in his surveillance. “Dunno if we should just barge in or wait.”

“Don’t ya want to see if Hosea’s alive?” John asked, but he didn’t move, waiting for Arthur’s lead. The young man wondered how much willpower John must have to not rush right into the building. Or how much nervousness about what waited inside.

“Sure, but-.”

The decision was made for them in the middle of his sentence as Dutch suddenly emerged from the office. He must have exited with the intention of looking for their arrival, for he spotted them right away and waved, motioning them over. The two acted on the invitation at once, practically running across the street to join the man on the porch.

“How is he?” Arthur asked, breathless with apprehension.

“He ain’t dead is he?” John demanded, and Arthur glared at the boy.

“Let him answer!”

“I wanna know if he’s dead!”

Dutch held up his hands, silencing the argument with a barked, “He ain’t dead!” that shut the two young outlaws up. Stepping to the edge of the porch, Dutch drew a hand down his face, scratching at the scruff that was growing on his jaw. “The doctor’s taking a look at him right now…so there ain’t much I can tell you. But he says it’s winter fever.”

Winter fever. Arthur had heard about it, seen it happen to a few folks too. He’d seen some cough up so much blood and mucus he’d thought they’d drown in it. He’d heard about those that had suffocated to death in their sleep or when they were alone. They were found with their eyes bugged out, faces purple, mouths agape. A shudder ran down his spine as he imagined what could have happened had such an attack struck when Hosea was alone, when he and Dutch were fighting Red’s men.

Thinking of Dutch brought him back to the present and he looked to the man. Seeing his father standing there so dejectedly, shoulders tense and eyes weary, Arthur realized he’d been so worried about Hosea that he’d forgotten that Dutch was probably just as scared. His thinking from early that morning, the hope Hosea was getting better, seemed ages away now, and he stepped up to the outlaw’s shoulder.

“He gonna make it?”

Dutch glanced up at the sky for a brief moment, muscles in his jaw tightening before he turned to his sons. A smile cracked across his face and he slapped a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Make it? Hosea? Do you boys know what you’re saying? ‘Course he’s gonna make it, this is our marvelous Mr. Matthews we’re talking about!” He fished around in his pockets for a moment, then shook his head with a grunt of realization. “Arthur, where’s that money?”

“Here.” He handed it over and Dutch peeled a bill off the small stack, crushing it into Arthur’s palm. “You both go to the hotel, get a room. Get two rooms. And take yourselves a bath.”

Arthur took the money reluctantly. “Don’t you want us to stay here?”

“Best not,” Dutch said, nodding toward the jailhouse, “Might call unwanted attention. We didn’t get far from that bank.”

It was difficult to argue with that, so Arthur shoved the bill in his pocket and he and John headed back toward the hotel. When they were across the street, John already asking if he could get something to eat, Dutch let his smile fade, expression settling once again into the frown that had hardly left his face since this whole thing started.

The doctor had not brought him the comfort he desired. Rather than a reassuring statement about Hosea just needing some rest and time to heal, the doctor’s face had become grave and he’d risen to his feet on the moment Dutch walked in half-carrying Hosea on his shoulder, ushering them to a back room before the outlaw could say a word about needing help.

Inside, Doctor Wolcott, as he introduced himself, had ordered Dutch to lay Hosea down on the cot and remove his boots while he undid the buttons of the conman’s shirt. Then he’d spent a painfully long amount of time listening to Hosea’s chest with a stethoscope as Dutch paced behind him, wishing he could hold Hosea’s hand but knowing such an action was far too intimate, especially for a small town like this one. Throughout all of it Hosea barely regained consciousness, reacting only to the dreams his fevers gave him and mumbling unintelligible things to the air.

When Wolcott finally sat back and took the scope from his ear, Dutch went to his side, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”

The doctor’s mouth was a fine line under his bushy moustache. “I’ve seen it before, but that doesn’t mean I can cure it.” He stood, going to a cabinet on the wall and rifling through the glass bottles there, making them clink, the sound harsh in Dutch’s ears. “I’m going to need some more time with him than a quick check-up; this won’t go away on its own, no sir.”

Dutch folded his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking and stared down at Hosea as if he could burn the illness away with his passion. “Is he dying?”

Wolcott cast a sharp glance back at the outlaw. “Not quite. Not yet. And he won’t if I can help it.” Finding the correct medicinal mixture, he returned to the bed. “He’s got winter fever, as far as I can tell by one listen at his lungs.”

“But it’s summer,” Dutch replied stupidly, and the doctor cast him a sympathetic look.

“I need some time with him to make sure of my diagnosis, of course, but I can tell you that, at this moment, his condition is very unstable.”

Now, outside after sending Arthur and John to the hotel, Dutch reached into the breast pocket of his vest, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He needed a distraction. Strolling down the boardwalk a ways, he stopped in front of the barbershop and leaned against one of the poles holding up the shoddy roof over the walk. He took a drag and let smoke drift out into the empty street, looking for all the world like a relaxed citizen simply taking a smoke break.

But from this position he could see the wanted posters papering the front of the jailhouse, could read the names and study the faces, looking for a ‘van der Linde’ or ‘Matthews’ or even a ‘Morgan’. Though he knew it was inevitable, Dutch dreaded the day he’d see Arthur’s face on a wanted poster. The bounty would start small; they’d say ‘what a shame such a nice-looking boy fell in with those criminals’, but then the dollar amount would rise and they’d stop feeling pity and start feeling anger when they saw Arthur’s face looking back at them through grainy ink.

‘Bastard’ they’d call him, ‘brute’, and maybe they’d be right.

“Everyone deserves to be a little bit of a bastard,” Dutch muttered. Certain there were no incriminating pictures decorating this town, he stubbed out his cigarette on the post, pushing away from it to head back to the doctor’s.

When he turned around, however, he was met with the presence of two men coming down the walk toward him. A quick glance and Dutch took in their clean hats, well-maintained guns, and, most disturbingly, the shiny silver stars adorning their lapels. He ran a few scenarios through his head; avoid eye contact and cross the street? No, that was far too suspicious, especially since they were looking right at him. Total acknowledgment it was, then.

Finishing the step he’d already begun, Dutch made straight for the lawmen, tipping his hat and flashing a smile as the space between them shrunk. “Afternoon, sirs,” he said, friendly, but not too friendly, and made to stand aside to let them pass.

To his dismay, they stopped directly in front of him.

“Good afternoon,” the older one said. He had a long moustache and his star read ‘sheriff’. Dutch kept a curse hidden behind his teeth and widened his smile.

“Can I help you, Sheriff?” he asked. “Or rather, would you mind helping me? I’m new in town and I’m afraid I don’t know who to go to about a house. You see, the wife and I are looking for something small, maybe a country home, but not too far out of town. We’re not into farming, just the occasional chicken or two!”

He chuckled, feeling sweat beginning to bead under the band of his hat. The sheriff did not look the least bit amused and Dutch began to regret putting his back to the barbershop; a stupid mistake. The deputy had one hand lightly resting on one of his pistols and Dutch itched to do the same.

“New in town, you say?” the sheriff said, “Then let me introduce us; This is Deputy Farrel. I’m Sheriff Codwell, and I’m putting you under arrest.”

Dutch made his eyes widen and jaw drop even as he felt his stomach start twisting itself into knots. “Me? Why, what have I done?”

“Plenty!” the deputy piped up. He was young, maybe Arthur’s age, with a mess of blond curls. “And don't you deny it.”

“Got news this morning from Ridgevale,” Codwell continued, lifting a hand to quiet his enthusiastic second-in-command. “There’d been a bank robbery, and a certain dark-haired young man was seen leaving on a black mare with a bag of cash slung over his shoulder.” He leaned into Dutch, eyes hard. “Sound familiar, Mr. van der Linde?”

“Not at all,” Dutch replied, but he didn’t put much conviction behind it. If they had his name, and a report on his appearance, along with María’s, then the jig was up.

“Heard you was with a few other folks too.” Codwell looked around, and Dutch felt a rush of pride toward Arthur for being wise enough to hitch the horses out of sight. “They ‘new in town’ too?”

“Just me and the chickens,” Dutch replied, eliciting a glare from the Codwell. 

“Alright, turn around, you’re coming with me,” the sheriff said, and Dutch did as he was told. He felt the warm metal of handcuffs snap around his wrists as his revolvers were removed from their holsters, leaving him feeling suddenly naked. His arm was taken hold of, the tight grip guiding him toward the jailhouse.

“Don’t resist,” Codwell warned. “The folks in Ridgevale want you alive for trial, but ain’t no one going to complain too much about a sheriff shooting no lowdown criminal in self-defense. Do I make myself clear?”

“Like glass,” Dutch replied, and he was roughly shoved into the building. It was cool inside, and dark compared to the bright outdoors. As his eyes adjusted, Dutch could see a desk, a few chairs, and two jail cells on the far side. He was pushed into one of the chairs, and Farrel handcuffed him to the arms, then moved to a wall cabinet. Dutch made careful note of which shelf his Schofields were put on before turning his attention back to Codwell, who had lit a cigarette as he leaned on the edge of the desk. “I assure you, this is all a misunderstanding,” he tried again, just in case. “I’m simply a man trying to start a new life in your fine town.” He shook his head. “Not so fine a place as I assumed, if this is how you treat newcomers!”

Farrel let out a harsh breath. “It ain’t us who-!”

“James, please,” Codwell said. “Van der Linde, you seem to need some convincing of the fact that we know who you are.” Tucking the cigarette between his fingers, Codwell reached into the inner lining of his coat, pulling out two sheets of fresh paper. He turned one around and Dutch found himself looking at his own likeness under the word WANTED printed in big block letters. Beneath the picture was a short script and Dutch read it quickly.

_Dutch van der Linde, wanted for Robbery of THE RIDGEVALE COUNTY BANK and other Reports of Villainy, including vagrancy, assault, sodomy, horse theft, and MURDER._

Dutch’s gaze flicked up to Codwell’s face. “It appears you forgot ‘drunkenness’ in your list. I assure you, I have drunk a lot of whiskey in my time.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Codwell’s expression was sour, like simply being in the outlaw’s presence was unpleasant. “But you ain’t liquored up now, so why don’t you tell me where the rest of your gang is, nice and clear?”

Dutch leaned forward as much as the cuffs would allow and smiled. “Come, come Sheriff, you don’t think I’d just walk into town with my entire gang, so soon after a robbery? You must think me a fool.”

“I know you’re not,” Codwell replied, “At least not completely, though any man who does the things you’ve done has a great deal of foolishness in him.” Laying the poster of Dutch on the desk, he flipped the second one around, lifting it for Dutch to see properly. “I also know that where you are, he won’t be far behind.”

The second poster made Dutch’s show of ease hitch for a fraction of a second. Poster artists always drew Hosea decently, capturing his strong jaw and high cheekbones. However, the dark look in the image’s eyes always made Dutch feel uneasy, like he was looking at some wicked doppelganger of his best friend; Hosea could be dangerous when he needed to be, but Dutch had never seen his eyes go so sinister as they were in his printed likeness.

At the moment though, the picture only served to enforce the idea that, at this very moment, as Codwell scrutinized his face for unspoken information, Hosea was lying just across the street. And it was up to Dutch to make sure that the sheriff stayed here, and Hosea stayed _there_.

Tilting his chin up, the outlaw settled more comfortably in the wooden chair he was bound to, crossing one leg over the other, making a show of it. “Ask away, sheriff. I’m a man free from the chains of society…I’ve got all the time in the world.”

As Codwell tensed with anger at the performance, Dutch’s gaze flickered to the window. Through the glass he could see the doctor’s office, the front of it practically screaming, to Dutch’s mind; _‘come inside, sheriff!’_ , and the sight of it reminded him that, on the topic of time, they had very little to spare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was rather fun to figure out what pneumonia was called before it was named 'pneumonia'. Turns out, it was called 'winter fever' before the pneumonia bacteria was discovered in the early 1880s.


	5. Between Brothers

Arthur couldn’t deny that having a bath soothed his nerves immensely, even if John had gotten soap in his eyes while they washed each other’s hair. The water had been warm and the rooms came at a reasonable price. Sure, they were sparsely furnished, but the roof didn’t leak and the floorboards were sound. Arthur supposed Mills Creek didn’t get many travelers coming through; the place was a working town, not a tourist spot, something the young outlaw was glad of. While the hustle and bustle of a busy village made it easy to fade into the background, Arthur never felt so comfortable as when he was in a backwater settlement, where the sweat of a man’s brow and the care of his horse counted more than the bill fold in his pocket. That was a sentiment Arthur could get behind, understand. He’d never aspired to be a rich man, only caring about money when it filled his belly or kept his guns loaded.

 _‘Give me a fine horse and a sunset to ride her into,’_ he thought as he rubbed his hair dry in their hotel room. _‘…I should write that down.’_

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed his satchel and pulled out the trusty journal from inside. After scribbling the romanticism on a new page, he mulled over their situation. They were in a bind, that was for sure. Bank robberies always ended with moving on right quick, and Arthur reckoned they hadn’t gone far enough from Ridgevale to be in the clear yet. With all the stopping and holdups, they had maybe a day left before lawmen discovered the direction they had taken, and that was being hopeful. Somehow, he doubted Hosea would be miraculously cured in a day’s time, or three, or a week…or ever. Closing his journal, Arthur shut his eyes. Thinking again of Hosea kneeling in the dirt on the side of the road, face discolored and blood on his mouth, made him wince, and he pushed the thought away.

At least they had a little time now. The money was hidden, Hosea was at the doc’s, and Dutch would be-.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and John came bursting into the room, sending the door crashing back against the wall.

“They’re getting’ Dutch!”

His voice was shockingly quiet for the boisterous entrance and Arthur stood up so fast it made his head spin. “What?”

“I was feedin’ Buckwheat a treat and- look!” the boy ran to the window and Arthur almost tripped over his own feet crossing the room to join his brother. “Saw the sheriff headin’ down the street!”

Their room looked over the main road, positioned so they could see the shops and wheel-ruts in the track, and perfectly positioned so they could witness the two lawmen walk up to Dutch and begin speaking to him. By the exaggerated way the outlaw was gesturing, Arthur knew he was spinning some kind of yarn, but it didn’t seem to land very well. John had his nose pressed to the glass, fogging it up with hot breath, and Arthur rubbed the steam away so they could watch as the sheriff guided the outlaw toward the jail. When they disappeared inside, John looked up at Arthur.

“He didn’t try to fight.”

“’course not,” Arthur said. A shootout would only alert half the town of trouble and then what? The doctor would say that Mr. Hosea Matthews was lying in his sickbed, and Arthur doubted the sheriff would be kind enough to let him stay there. No, Dutch’s easy surrender was a way to avoid a ruckus.

“Whadda we do?” John asked.

Going back to the bed, Arthur sat down again, running a hand through his hair. “I reckon…I reckon we’d better….” He trailed off and John came to sit beside him, swinging his legs so his heels thumped on the frame. Arthur furrowed his brow, staring at the opposite wall but not really seeing it. “We should try and rescue Dutch and get out of here.”

“What about Hosea?” John’s voice was tight.

Arthur twisted the neckerchief at his throat as a pit grew in his stomach. “John, I… I dunno if we can.”

John stared at the reluctant statement, realization dawning on his features. “You think he’s gonna die.”

“I said I dunno” 

“He’s just a little sick,” John said, getting off the bed and moving to the middle of the room, crossing his arms. “We’ve all had fevers!”

“Not like this,” Arthur replied coarsely.

When John kicked his shin, he lifted his gaze to meet the boy’s angry eyes. “He’s not gonna die!” John shouted. “Dutch brought him to a doctor so he wouldn’t!”

“Doctors can’t fix everything!” Arthur bit, sitting up.

John stamped his foot, fists clenched. “Shut up, Arthur! This one can! I know it!”

“How?” Arthur was on his feet now, leaning over John, but the boy held his ground. “How is he different? He’s not God and neither is anyone else! Not him, not any other doctor! They’re just people, just people, understand?”

“Just because a doctor didn’t save your ma doesn’t mean this one can’t save Hosea!” John yelled, his face bright red, and Arthur’s rage soared. His hand shot out to latch onto the front of John’s shirt, dragging him forward so forcefully that the boy’s boots scuffed on the floor.

“Don’t you talk about her!” he roared, shaking John harshly. “Everyone dies, everyone! Hosea’s just getting a chance to escape this hell before the rest of us!”

“Shut up!” John screamed, hitting his brother’s broad chest with his fists, writhing madly against the hand holding his shirt. “Why do you want him to die?”

The words punched Arthur in the gut so hard he released John, and the boy flailed backwards toward the door. Slinging it open, he fled the room, leaving Arthur standing alone, hand still stretched out.

Half a moment later his senses came crashing down around him and Arthur bolted out into the hall, yelling, “Marston!” as he ran for the stairs. Halfway down, his way was blocked by the hotel owner, who had a furious look on his face.

“What’s all the ruckus, mister? I won’t have it in my establishment!”

“Outta the damn way!” Arthur wrestled past him and darted to the front entrance, but upon opening the door to the outside world, he saw no one but the same unconscious drunk and a cat sunning itself outside the general store.

“John?”

But John was gone.

Arthur slumped against the doorframe, breaths coming fast and heavy as his anger faded and regret sank in. Stupid…stupid! Why did he have to get so angry? Now the kid was gone, who knows where, with lawmen on the lookout and Dutch already caught.

“Young man, if you’re going to be violent, you’ll have to leave. Otherwise I’m alerting the sheriff.”

Arthur turned around at the hotel owner’s declaration, lifting his hands submissively. “I’m real sorry, sir, really. Me and my brother…it was just an argument. There’s no need to get the sheriff. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

The owner quirked an eyebrow but seemed to accept the excuse and the apology. “Alright, son, but keep it down from here on, understand?”

“Understood, sir,” Arthur replied before ascending the stairs again and entering the bedroom. Everything was spiraling out of control and he felt dizzy for a moment and sat down heavily in the middle of the floor. Grasping at his neckerchief, he crumpled the end in his hand, the familiar action calming him enough so he could get to his feet again. There was no telling if they’d make it back to the room; he gathered up everything important, shoved it all into his satchel and put his hat securely on his head. He traced the brim of it with his fingers for a moment, standing in the doorway. When he had first put the cowboy hat on, it had been a little too big and both his parents were dead, his mother by illness, his father by the rope. A tremor went through him at the realization of how similar the situations were for his current caretakers.

“That’s the past, Arthur,” he muttered to himself. “Right now, you gotta think about the family that’s still alive, and how they can stay that way.”

-

John stood with his back against an outer wall of the general store, hiccupping out tiny sobs as he hid. He watched as Arthur got to the door and shouted his name. The young man looked upset, and guilt poked holes in the wall of anger around John’s heart, like water through a weak dam.

“Don’t provoke him,” Hosea had said on more than one occasion after John came running, saying Arthur was being mean for no reason. “He’s faced a lot of anger in his life…most of it directed at him. It’s our job to show him that anger and violence isn’t the only way to solve problems.”

It wasn’t easy, being nice to Arthur when he got angry, often for seemingly no reason, though Hosea told him there was always a reason, though maybe it wasn’t obvious to their eyes or ears. John did not want to be what Arthur was. The older boy had a fury in him that John somehow always managed to trigger, no matter what he said or did, and it wasn’t fair.

He didn’t want to grow up to be as angry, or sad, as Arthur was. Hosea said the two emotions went hand in hand and John tried his best to stay calm and collected like the conman was when Arthur shouted, but it was hard when he could feel so much hatred and fear of his own building up inside. Right now, standing in the shadows between the two buildings, he could feel the fires of anger still coiling in his stomach.

Arthur was still in the doorway, but then he turned away toward something inside and a sad little frown tugged at John’s mouth. He’d half-hoped Arthur would see him, but when the door closed, separating them completely, he abandoned his hiding spot and moved further back along the wall. He hadn’t run out of the hotel with the intent of going to see Hosea, but now that the opportunity had risen, there was nothing he wanted to do more than see how badly ill the conman really was.

Making sure that no passersby had witnessed him running out, and with a last look at where Arthur had stood, John continued toward the back of the store and away from the hotel.

-

When Arthur walked into the doctor’s office, Wolcott was sitting at the desk just inside the door behind a half-wall, scribbling something in a book. Arthur stood with his hat in his hands, waiting for the doctor to notice him.

“What can I help you with, young man?” Wolcott asked after only a couple short seconds. “I don’t know your face; new in town, are you?”

“Erm, yes,” Arthur replied, not quite sure how to approach the subject. “Uh, you’ve got feller in here, suffering from winter fever?”

“Perhaps.” Wolcott set down his pen. “What would he be to you?”

“My pa,” Arthur answered, aware of how much the statement weighed as both truth and a lie. “My-my uncle brought him in earlier.”

Wolcott’s suspicion faded in an instant. “Ah, yes, I can understand why you’d want to see him, then! You wouldn’t happen to be Arthur, would you?”

“Yeah.”

Wolcott picked his pen up again. “He said your name in his sleep. Go on in, son. Second door. You sitting with him will give me a chance to finish up my work here.”

Going down the short hall, Arthur found the correct door and turned the handle quietly before pushing in. Less quiet was the yelp that emanated from John’s mouth when he saw Arthur standing in the doorway.

“Why, you little-!” Shutting the door, Arthur slammed his hat back on his head. His gaze instinctively went to Hosea laying in bed and was relieved to see the conman still breathing. “What are you doing?”

“Same as you, seeing Hosea!” John retorted, and Arthur put a finger to his lips.

“Shh! Before the doc hears your blabbin’!”

“If you ain’t getting him out, I am,” John said, and it came to Arthur’s attention that he had Hosea’s boots and gunbelt in his grasp. “I’ve spent too long getting used to you weirdos to just leave him to die!”

“And how are you plannin’ on getting him up and out the door?”

As he asked the question, Arthur took a step forward and was shocked to see John flinch backwards toward the bed, his hand fluttering down to rest on Hosea’s hand. All at once the young outlaw had a vision of himself standing, as John was, by a sickbed. But the hand he’d held was cold as ice and the person he’d drawn back from was his father.

“She’s gone, boy. It’s time to go.”

Tears pricked Arthur’s eyes and his tense shoulders drooped. His mother had been dead when they left her. 

Hosea was not.

He reached out and John looked fearful, but instead of being yanked away from the bed, the boy was pulled into a tight hug. Arthur’s strong arms practically crushed him, and he wriggled in discomfort as Hosea’s things dug into his skin.

“Arthur-!”

“We’ve both seen folks die,” the young outlaw said into his ear, not letting go despite John’s struggles, and at the words, the boy stopped moving to listen. “It ain’t ever easy.” Leaned back, Arthur put both hands on John’s shoulders, looking him in the eye. “You gotta be ready for it to happen again.”

“You gotta think nicer,” John said quietly. “I mean- you need to-.”

Arthur gave him a tiny smile, ruffling dark locks fondly. “I’ll try and be more positive,” he promised. “So let’s think this through, ‘kay? What would Dutch say right now?”

“Let’s make a plan.” John’s face split into a grin. “We plannin’ a rescue?”

“Something like that,” Arthur replied. “Ain’t nobody dying here if we can help it. …How’s that?”

“Good,” John nodded, then his eyes widened. “Hey-!”

Arthur whipped around, hand going to his gun. The person in the doorway had their arms crossed, wearing a scowl as they looked at the two young ruffians.

“Well,” they said, “You boys are in quite a mess, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boysᵀᴹ may not always get along, but they love each other. Sometimes reluctantly, but always with every fiber of their being.


	6. A Knight in Shining Armor and Skirts

In the Mills Creek jailhouse, Sheriff Codwell sat with his boots up on the desk, the week’s paper in hand, reading the latest news. Well, perhaps it wasn’t quite the latest; things took a while to get to Mills Creek, and the sheriff counted himself fortunate that he’d received the telegraph about the Ridgevale Bank so fast. Had he chosen to get coffee first that morning, rather than stop at the post office, he may have walked right by van der Linde without even noticing him. He’d always considered himself a lucky man, but the afternoon’s good fortune seemed to be rapidly dissipating since getting van der Linde in his office.

The outlaw was a puzzle that had begun to drive Codwell mad. The sheriff had never seen a face that was so open and so evasive at the same time, and it threw him off guard.

Dutch van der Linde was like an open book, but his story was written in a secret language and every time the book closed, the words rearranged themselves so the bookmarked page was lost. Sheriff Codwell could see every emotion in the outlaw’s face, from anger, to amusement, to fear, though the man tried to hide it, but the sheriff did not know what these passions meant, which page they belonged on, or what thread of story they connected to. And the longer he tried to read van der Linde, the more the words turned to gibberish, and the harder it became to know what the outlaw was thinking.

He knew exactly as much as he had when he’d first started the questioning, but no one could say he was a quitter. He’d drilled the outlaw through the majority of the day, only stopping when the sky grew dark and Farrel left for the evening.

At the moment, van der Linde stood up by the bars of his jail cell, arms looped through the metal, gaze directed toward the window. His stance was easy, but Codwell had been around enough criminals to recognize the signs of restlessness. Fingers tapping the cell bars, eyes flickering about before returning to the window and the freedom beyond, a hand running over the empty spot where a revolver used to sit. Van der Linde did all of these and Codwell mused over what he could be thinking about.

It was probably the money. What else could an outlaw fret over, beside a noose around his neck? Van der Linde didn’t have to worry about that for a while now, not until the Ridgevale trial was over. Codwell guessed it wouldn’t be much of a judging… van der Linde was as guilty as the day was long; the real issue that needed attention was where the money had been stashed, since it obviously wasn’t on the outlaw’s person. Farrel had checked his saddlebags too and found nothing, so most of the interrogation had focused on the whereabouts of the stolen loot.

“I have no idea,” van der Linde had laughed, and then grunted in pain when Codwell’s knuckles met the side of his temple. “Even if I did, you think I’d reveal it to some two-bit sheriff in a backwater town? Send me back to Ridgevale and the big boys, Codwell.”

It would have been nice to learn the location of the money, show the city police what this ‘two-bit sheriff’ was capable of, but he’d already sent a message down to the post office. He reckoned the Ridgevale police could get to Mills Creek tomorrow afternoon, and with the way things were going, he doubted he’d be getting any information out of the outlaw before they arrived to take van der Linde away.

His thoughts were interrupted by the front door of the jailhouse opening, and he swung his legs off the desk as a handsome blonde woman admitted herself into the office. Her attire was nondescript; a dark colored dress under a man’s coat that was too large for her.

“Evening, ma’am,” Codwell said, rising to his feet and tipping his hat. He immediately recognized her to be one of the girls who worked at the saloon, a relative newcomer in town. She always served him a knowing smile when he walked into the place, like they shared some sort of secret between them. “How can I help you?”

“You haven’t been in for your evening drink,” the woman said, coming up to the desk and resting her hands on the surface.. “Wondered what was keeping you.”

“Too much work to be done here,” Codwell replied with a smile, a little surprised and flattered at the attention. “You miss me?”

“Can’t you take a break from this?” The woman leaned in, a little smirk on her face, breath tickling his moustache. “Miss seein’ your face as I work.”

Codwell nearly blushed, but that wouldn’t have been manly so he tried to hide it behind a grin and a hand to her chin, tilting her face up. “Really?”

“No.”

Before Codwell could process the cold rebuttal, the woman’s hand was on his neck, slamming his forehead down to the desk. He yelled out in pain, but before he could even make to rise, something hard hit the back of his skull and everything went black.

After the sheriff’s unconscious body slumped to the floor, the woman tucked the pistol back into her coat, where it vanished into a large pocket. Kicking Codwell with the toe of her shoe, she let out a huff of breath.

“Fool,” she snapped. “Shouldn’t have let his guard down.”

“I’m glad he did,” Dutch chuckled from where he had watched the entire scene. “The keys are in the desk drawer. Top one.”

She found the ring of keys fast and tossed them across the room. Dutch caught them between the bars, the clang of metal uncomfortably loud. “You get yourself out,” she said, “I’m going to tie this bastard up.”

A few moments later Dutch was opening the cabinet and slipping his guns back in their places at his sides. The effect of their return was instantaneous; Dutch straightened his back and ran a hand through his curly hair, pushing it from his keen eyes. “Care for some help, madam?”

“Certainly,” his rescuer replied, tightening the gag around Codwell’s mouth. “Grab his feet.”

Between the two of them they got the sheriff into the cell Dutch had just vacated and the outlaw locked the door before tucking the keys into his pocket. “That should keep them busy for a while.”

“Let’s get out of here,” the woman said, and Dutch followed her out the front door and across the street to the shadowy space between two buildings, lit only by the glow of the rising moon. After making sure they hadn’t been seen, Dutch turned to his rescuer with a bright smile. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her feet off the ground and spun in a small circle, sending her skirts twirling. She laughed and looped her arms around his neck, holding tight until he let her down again.

“Susan, Susan,” Dutch sang quietly, cupping her face in his hands. His thumb fondly brushed the scar on her left cheek as their eyes met, sparkling with the exhilaration of the escape. “What would I do without you, my dearest Susan? My knight in shining armor!”

Susan Grimshaw rolled her eyes and pushed his hands away. “Save the sweet talk for later, Dutch.” Her tone suddenly became more serious and she shucked off her coat, hitching up her skirt to put the pistol into a thigh holster instead. “We’ve got a mess on our hands. What on earth did you do this time? Last time we saw each other, it ended with this scar,” she pointed to her face, “This time it might end up with one of you dyin’!”

“What do you mean?” Dutch asked, trailing her around the back of the building, pausing only to peer around the corner to ensure the coast was clear. “What have I done?”

“Honestly, Dutch, waltzing into town not two days after robbing a bank? What were you thinking?”

“I haven’t lost my senses,” the outlaw declared. “I had my reasons.”

“Oh, I know,” Susan replied. They both froze as a shout sounded over the houses, but there was no response or rousing of the town, and they continued on. “Your ‘reason’ is unconscious in the back of a wagon behind the doctor’s office, if Arthur and John did their job right. I found them there after seeing your horses in the street, and they told me everything. Really! Putting both yourself and Mr. Matthews in the vicinity of the law right now!”

“Pardon me for wanting my best friend to live,” Dutch grumbled.

“Well, he has a better chance now anyway,” Susan said as they rounded a shed and the aforementioned wagon came into view. María and Maarav were hitched to the front and John was sitting in the driver’s seat, keeping them still. “I told the boys to grab all the medicine they could from the room.”

When they reached the wagon, Dutch’s elation about being free paled in comparison to the conflicting emotions of relief and despair when his eyes fell on Hosea. Arthur was folding a blanket into a makeshift pillow under the conman’s head as Dutch hopped onto the wagon wheel and over the side.

“How are we doing?” he asked.

“Better, I think,” Arthur replied, finishing his work and moving back so Dutch could take his place beside Hosea. When the outlaw touched his cheek, the fever was still present, but his breathing was less worrisome; whatever the doctor had given him was helping, at least for now.

Susan was shooing Arthur away from the driver's seat, climbing up beside John. “I drive, you shoot,” she ordered, and he hastened to hop off when she shook the reins, sending the cart lurching forward. “If there’s any luck in this world, they won’t know their jailbird has flown the coop until we’re long gone.”

“Where we headed, Susan?” Dutch asked, settling down to the wagon boards when they began moving. Behind, Arthur mounted Jalapeno and urged Buckwheat to follow the wagon as Susan drove around toward the street. “Because we’ve got a stop to make.”

“And where’s that?”

“Dredger’s Crossing,” John said. “Money’s there.”

Susan nodded. “Good to know you fools were clever enough to hide that at least. There’s an abandoned homestead in the foothills of Haines’ Rise. Should be there tomorrow night, if the weather holds, and we’ll go right over the river.”

“Let’s get out of this town first.” Dutch cast a look around, but no one came running up to stop them or draw a gun on the little group. Down the street, yellow lamp light shone from the jailhouse windows, a picture of peace and control. In between it and them the night crowd mingled; a few workers were getting drinks before turning in, not much of a party on a work night, and those who turned their eye on the wagon did so without recognition. After a few minutes, in which Arthur and Dutch each kept one hand hovering near their revolvers, the wagon left the buildings, passed by the mill, and rolled through the quiet wheat fields into freedom.

Only when the lights of town vanished behind a hill did Dutch relax at all. Released from the fear of being caught in town, the outlaw prepared to turn his full attention to Hosea, but was quickly confronted by both John and Arthur.

“We thought you was a goner! John saw ya get picked up by that sheriff.”

“Arthur yelled at me. But it’s fine, I guess.”

“I grabbed all the medicine I could, think it’s enough?”

And Susan: “You’re all just lucky I happened to be in town!”

“Aw, Grimshaw, John and I aren’t complete idiots.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it!”

“Quiet!” Dutch scowled, and the chattering ceased. “Can you all please- I just need-.” His hand passed over his eyes, ran through his hair, and came to a rest on Hosea’s arm. “I need a minute to think.”

The others’ thundering silence only served to remind the outlaw that he didn’t want to think too much, not about the law that would be after them, not about the still very real problem of Red Jackson, not about the fear that had plagued him in that jail cell, and certainly not about the fact that, perhaps because of his foolishness, Hosea remained in danger.

“Just get us somewhere safe,” he said at last, and Susan snapped the reins, urging the horses onward down the lane as the moon rose higher in the sky.

-

Susan’s homestead proved to be exactly what they needed; a small ranch house tucked away in a copse of trees just far enough away from the path to make Dutch comfortable. Prickles of unease crawled over the outlaw’s skin when they pulled up and saw the large word ‘PLAGUE’ painted in white on the barn door, but Susan swiftly quelled their worries.

“It’s been like this for a long time now,” she said. “Last time I was here was near three years ago and it’d been abandoned for at least two before that. According to the farmer down the way, those who died left no family and no one’s ever wanted to buy it. Perfect for us.”

“It’s out of the way,” Dutch agreed. “And that’s all we need.”

He glanced upwards at the sky as the others began dismounting from the horses and wagon. It had been overcast all day, and now the churning clouds overhead darkened the evening sky, and distant thunder promised a storm. Turning his focus to the earth, he put his hat on his head and stepped over Hosea toward the back of the wagon. The conman had woken for a short moments over the past day, but he was sleeping again now. Dutch hated to wake him.

“Susan, set one of the bedrooms up,” he ordered, “John, get a fire going. Arthur, help me get Hosea inside.”

“I can carry him,” the young man offered, tossing Jalapeno’s reins over her neck. Dutch nodded assent and shook Hosea’s shoulder gently.

“Wake up, old girl,” he said, “We’ve got ourselves a house. Arthur…,” he motioned for the young man to come closer to the wagon. “Arthur’s gonna get you inside.”

Hosea just let out a hoarse cough and allowed Dutch to maneuver him so his legs were dangling off the back of the wagon. Arthur stepped up, putting his arms under the conman’s thighs and hoisting him up. Immediately, Hosea wrapped his arms around the young outlaw’s neck, burying his face in Arthur’s shoulder, and Dutch thought he saw his son’s steadfast expression falter for the briefest moment.

“Go on,” he said, hopping down to the grass. As his boots hit the ground, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and thunder echoed over the mountains only a few seconds later. “I’m going to take a look around, make sure we’re really alone out here.”

Arthur nodded and started toward the house, arms and back straining to keep Hosea steady. It struck Dutch suddenly that, for all the times he talked about Arthur becoming a man, he never truly realized he was growing up. The tall, strong young man walking away from him now was vastly different from the scrawny street-rat he and Hosea had picked up nine years ago.

 _‘Is this what it’s like to be a father?’_ he wondered, as Susan opened the front door of the house and waved Arthur in. _‘I didn’t realize time could move so fast…can the years really slip away from us that easily without us knowing it’s even happening?’_

John’s face appeared at the window, then vanished as a sudden, louder crack of thunder sounded in the air nearby and the door swung shut after Arthur, erasing the rectangle of yellow that had appeared on the grass. Warm light glowed from the house now, making the place look homey, but it was no safe haven until the surrounding area was checked, so Dutch dragged himself away from the urge to be with his family, instead picking up a shotgun Arthur had left on the wagon before going to María. Unhooking her from the wagon, he pulled himself onto her bare back and touched his heels to her sides.

“Patrol time,” he murmured, petting her neck as she headed back down the path they had just ridden up. “Have to make sure we’re the only ones out here.”

Half an hour later, the rain had arrived and Dutch was running from the barn to the house as fat droplets of water pelted him on the head and shoulders. Entering the ranch house brought him into a dusty, but dry, main room. A little dirt and grime didn’t matter; the room was sound and kept the rain out and the warmth in…that was good enough.

John was sitting staring out the window at the storm as Susan went through the cabinets, looking for food or supplies that may have been left behind by previous squatters. She pointed out the room they’d put Hosea in and Dutch started for it, slowing when he saw Arthur exit. The young man stopped in the doorway, partially blocking the path, and Dutch came to a halt.

“He’s…not doing great,” Arthur said in a low tone. “I gave him some of that medicine, but he didn’t say a word to me when I asked how he was feeling.”

“You’ve done fine, son.” Dutch inclined his head. “More than fine.”

Arthur nodded, and made to keep walking, but Dutch’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Make sure that money’s well hidden, and…Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The young man lifted his shoulders, looking confused. “For what?”

“For being strong,” Dutch replied, then shook his head when Arthur stared at his hands, mystified. “No, you idiot. Not physically.” His finger tapped a spot on the young man’s chest, just over his heart. “In _here_.”

Arthur’s face turned red and he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact. “Uh, I-,” he stammered, shuffling his feet for a moment before pushing past Dutch. “I’d better go stash that money.”

“’Course.” Dutch touched him on the back as he went, then turned into the bedroom. Susan had picked out the largest to put Hosea in, with a good-sized bed that seemed sturdy enough, though the mattress looked like it had supplied more than a few mice with bedding. However, with some blankets and a warm flame in the fireplace, it was almost nice. Better than a shithole roadhouse with more rats than people, or a collapsing shed, both of which the two outlaws had frequented on many an occasion.

In the light of the fire and the lamp burning on the nightstand, he saw Hosea sitting on the bed. The conman’s knees were drawn to his chest, face concealed in his folded arms, and he did not glance up when Dutch entered, simply remained where he was, still and quiet save for the wheeze of his breaths.

Dutch’s heart sank.

He had hoped a bed would give Hosea a chance to relax, some sort of…instant gratification or comfort, but the conman did not look like he was comfortable. He looked like he was in pain.

Taking note of the chill that lingered in the air despite the fire, Dutch crossed to the windows with the intention of closing the curtains. Raindrops beat against the glass, which was unbroken; another small blessing, and once again Dutch silently praised Susan for bringing them to this house. He peered through the glass, but it was too dark now to see outside unless lighting struck across the sky and lit up the forest with stark white light, so he returned his focus to the room.

“Guess we should thank Susan for finding us such a nice place,” he said, drawing the curtains closed against the storm. “Much better than that ranch house we stayed at outside Missoula. Remember the raccoons in the ceiling?”

Another bout of muffled coughing was the only reply and Dutch felt himself deflate a little further. Abandoning the window, he went to sit on the edge of the bed. Hosea undoubtedly felt the depression in the mattress, but he didn’t look up, keeping his face hidden from Dutch.

The outlaw’s hand lifted, hovering for a moment over Hosea’s arm before carefully settling down to his shoulder, beginning to rub small circles on the conman’s shirt. “Talk to me, darling,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

Hosea drew in a deep breath that Dutch felt under his hand as much as he heard it grinding out of the conman’s lungs. When Hosea finally lifted his head, Dutch was appalled to see tear tracks running down his partner’s face, and when the man blinked, more fell from his lashes.

“Hurts….”

“Where?”

Hosea opened his mouth but didn’t speak. A shudder passed through him, as if he were trying to say something that wouldn’t come out. Dutch’s fingers unconsciously pressed down a bit harder to his shoulder.

“Your chest?”

A nod, then Hosea gestured to his throat, his chest, everywhere.

“…urts…talk…breath.”

Two fresh tears rolled down his face to join the ones catching at his mouth and along his jaw. A heavy drop fell to his shirt, making the dark stain there grow. Dutch put a palm to his cheek to better feel the heat of flushed skin and Hosea leaned into the touch imploringly. Brushing his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, Dutch scooted closer.

“You’ll be alright, Hosea,” he soothed. “I’ll take care of you. This pain…it’s only temporary.”

That was true, at least. Whether Hosea got well again or was buried in an early grave…well, he’d be at peace no matter which of those two scenarios came to pass.

“You’ll be fine,” Dutch murmured, the faulty promise as much for his own sanity as the conman’s. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do if Hosea died…and he was going to avoid that train of thoughts for as long as he could.

A sob escaped Hosea’s lips, a choked sound that was followed by a gasping cough. The noise made it sound as if Hosea’s lungs were trying to free themselves from his body, and from the way he clawed at his chest, Dutch figured it must have felt like it too.

Clutching Hosea’s hands, Dutch leaned forward so his partner had to look him in the face.

“What do you need from me, Hosea?” he asked, almost desperate to provide some semblance of comfort to this man before him. “Tell me- show me! A drink? I’m sure there’s tea here somewhere. Or food? A bath? Arthur can run water-.”

_You._

Hosea mouthed the word, freeing his hands from Dutch’s hold to grasp at the outlaw’s shirt with trembling fingers. He tugged at the cloth and Dutch answered to the plea, folding Hosea into his arms so he was tucked up against the outlaw’s chest. Once there, Dutch felt him break down completely, his unhindered weeping a result of nearly three days of pain.

Usually quite proficient with words, Dutch felt himself at a loss for the right ones, and came to the rare conclusion that, perhaps for now at least, simply being there, holding him, was saying enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Susan (despite her flaws) but we get very little backstory for her in the game. It's so fun to write her younger self!


	7. A Visitor at the Door

So they’d settled in and settled down, and weeks passed.

The money was buried behind the barn, their tracks were covered, and Hosea was, at last, healing. It was only after the conman’s fever went down and a little color returned to his countenance that Dutch realized he hadn’t thought the man would get better at all. Too many nights they had spent sitting up, taking turns in the chair by the bed, fearing that, should they leave his side for a moment, Hosea would fade from them completely.

“You’ve taken care of us,” Dutch said when Hosea faintly protested the effort they were putting into his well-being, “Let us take care of _you_ now.”

And take care they did. Dutch sat at his side for hours on end, gave him baths, made sure the sheets were clean and the blankets warm, and insisted on Hosea drinking multiple cups of water a day because he remembered Doctor Wolcott mention something about getting plenty of liquids. The outlaw didn’t think he had ever put so much time or energy into one thing before, not a robbery or a hold-up or a many-layered con. He was struck by how small and trivial those scores seemed now, while at the time they had been the center of his entire world.

One could not say that the others didn’t do their part. When Hosea could finally eat something beyond oatmeal and runny eggs, Arthur cooked up stews that were so filled with herbs they made the entire house smell. He too sat at Hosea’s bedside, usually when Dutch would go out scouting for trouble or in the evening when he managed to get the man outside for a meal or smoke break. Then Arthur would take a chair and a book, and he would read aloud from a mystery crime novel Susan picked when she went to a nearby farm for supplies.

“It was just sitting on the porch swing, asking to be read,” she’d explained when she handed it over to the young outlaw. “I’m sure they won’t miss it all that much.”

Susan took charge of taking care of the care-givers, making sure Dutch and Arthur actually ate, instead of swallowing a box of crackers and some whiskey and saying ‘I’m fine’. Already adept at scolding, she became very good at guilt-tripping them into proper meals and sleep by asking if they wanted to worry Hosea by becoming ill themselves. Of course, they couldn’t argue with that.

In the first few days of their time at the ranch house, Dutch saw that John didn’t quite know how to help, and mostly stayed out of the way or watched the path with a rifle and a bored expression. The outlaw quickly dubbed him ‘Susan’s Little Helper’ which both pissed the boy off and gave him something to do, for the woman immediately accepted the help and had him running all over, gathering firewood, helping with meals, fetching water, and other miscellaneous chores that needed doing. Often at night he would listen to Arthur read, sitting quietly back in the doorway because Hosea had been very clear that his youngest was not going to get ill.

“For someone who never gets sick, you do it very well,” Dutch joked when Hosea was well enough to appreciate jokes, and the conman had managed a laugh.

“I’d rather the fever be doing poorly,” he’d replied. “Because, at the moment…it’s doing great.”

But after sleepless nights and hot baths and more cups of tea than could be counted, their diligence paid off. Hosea’s sleep was finally peaceful, his cough an annoyance rather than a death threat, and he began accepting meals, real meals that were slowly building his strength back up to what it had been. Dutch really didn’t know what more he could ask for.

In addition to learning how to be homemade doctors, they discovered very fast that, once he felt moderately well, Hosea did _not_ want to remain in bed. More than once Dutch would come in to find him trying to stoke the fire or pull his boots on, and would have to talk him back to bed. When that didn’t work, he’d literally lift the man off his feet and deposit him back on the mattress with no-nonsense determination. In the end, it took Arthur begging to get him to finally stay put.

“Please, Pa,” he’d said quietly one morning, “You’ve already scared us a lot…just sit and get better, okay?”

Such openly emotional talk from the young man was rare enough that Hosea conceded and stopped trying to walk around the house, if only to ease Arthur’s conscious. However, Dutch eventually saw his partner’s improvement reaching a point where he let himself imagine life beyond the next morning, and started thinking about the future of their little group.

“Colorado,” he said one evening as he stood out on the deck, smoking a cigarette. Susan sat on the steps with a mostly full bottle of brandy in her hand, and she glanced up when he spoke.

“Colorado?”

“There’s a mining town down there.” Dutch took a drag on the cigarette. “Could be a good place to head toward.”

Susan took a sip from the bottle in her hand. “Have you talked with Hosea about it?”

“Not yet.” Dutch dropped the cigarette, crushing the burning end under his boot heel. “Will you be joining us when we head out?”

“Reckon I don’t have much else going on,” Susan replied with a grin. “Though your way of livin’ leaves much to be desired.”

“Pretend these past few weeks didn’t happen, and we live like kings,” Dutch laughed, bending to plant a kiss on the top of her head before turning to enter the house. Just inside, in the main room of the place, John and Arthur were sitting at the table eating leftovers from supper and playing cards. “I expect you’re saving some in case Hosea feels like eatin’ later on?”

“Of course,” Arthur replied, spooning the hash he’d just put on his plate back into the pan as John snickered.

“Glad to hear it,” Dutch said, lifting one eyebrow. Leaving the boys to their game, he entered the big bedroom on the side of the house, his hand turning the knob slowly to keep the lock from clicking, lest the room’s occupant be asleep. However, he found Hosea awake, lying propped up on pillows in the bed and reading.

“My arms are sore from holding this book up,” the conman complained when Dutch came in. “Wish I could be on my stomach.”

“We saw how that played out the first night we got here,” Dutch said. “You couldn’t hardly breathe, let alone read.” He kicked aside the blankets and pillows that littered the floor as he crossed to the bed; he’d been sleeping on the ground most nights, which did nothing for his back, but Hosea was having enough trouble breathing without a bedfellow crushing him in a nightly embrace. So Dutch suffered the floorboards, no matter how much he itched to crawl under the covers with his partner.

Taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, he put his hand to Hosea’s forehead without invitation, but the conman soon waved him away.

“I haven’t had a fever for a week and a half now,” Hosea insisted. He caught Dutch’s hand in his and made to bring it to his lips, but hesitated. With a small movement, Dutch closed the gap and Hosea lifted his eyes to the outlaw’s face, then pressed a proper kiss to the knuckles.

“If I was going to catch it, I’d already have gotten it,” Dutch said. He opened his mouth to say more, then paused, but Hosea caught the hesitation.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

Dutch removed his hand from Hosea’s grasp, idly reaching up to brush a lock of hair from the conman’s forehead. “The future. I was thinking…Colorado.”

The book in Hosea’s lap closed and was set to the side. Dutch’s heart swelled a little, knowing he had his partner’s full attention. While he had to focus minutely on things he wanted to understand, Hosea had the ability to multitask; he could read a newspaper, have a conversation, and walk a straight line across camp all at the same time, so when he gave his undivided attention to something, or someone, Dutch knew he was taking it very seriously.

“Colorado, you say?” A slight cough shook Hosea’s form and Dutch was quick to hop up and cross to the pitcher of water on the dresser.

“There’s a mining town, Amira Wells, I believe it’s called,” he continued as he poured a glass full. “Figured it might be a place we could lie low until…well, until all this blows over.” Returning to the bed, Hosea accepted the drink and Dutch sat down again. “I know we talked about heading further into Wyoming, but maybe that ain’t the best idea right now.”

Hosea set the glass on the nightstand. “Because of me?”

His tone was critical, and Dutch huffed out a breath. “What do you want me to do, Hosea? Cart you over the mountains, into who knows what kind of weather? We can’t stay here; it’s too close to Mills Creek, and after that incident they probably have lawmen turning over every stone in this area. I’m surprised they haven’t found this place already. If Arthur wasn’t out there giving false information to everyone he sees, we’d be swinging by now.”

“I didn’t….” Hosea’s voice was quiet now, the rasp from weeks of coughing abusing his throat raw sorely apparent. “I ain’t mad at you, Dutch. I’m more upset at myself, I guess, for being such a dead weight on you all.” His gaze drifted to the door, through which came the sounds of Arthur and John laughing over something. “I know you’ll make the right call. You always do.”

“You ain’t causing us any more trouble than usual,” Dutch teased, and Hosea flashed him a smile.

“I’ll try not to be too insulted by that statement.”

Dutch shifted nearer, leaning in so he could place a kiss at Hosea’s hairline. “I’m just happy you’re on the mend, dearest.” Their foreheads pressed together and Dutch could clearly hear the labored grating of Hosea lungs. He knew then, as he had for the past weeks, that he didn’t care where they went as long as Hosea could heal. “You are all that matters to me.”

Hosea took his face in his hands, drawing him down into a kiss. It didn’t last very long, the conman needing to pull away to catch his breath, but when he had air again he pulled Dutch in a second time. The outlaw relished in the feel of Hosea; his tongue and teeth, fingers that tangled in dark hair, the hum of pleasure that vibrated against Dutch’s lips when he maneuvered himself further over his partner.

“You scared me, you know,” he murmured, cupping Hosea’s jaw and caressing his cheek. “Kept wondering if I’d wake up to….” He didn’t finish the sentence, lowering his gaze.

“To a corpse?” Hosea sighed. “Thought of that myself a few times. But I’m alive, aren’t I? I’m stuck in bed, but I’m livin’, just look at me.” His voice dropped a bit lower, fingers threading gently through his partner’s locks. “Look at me, darling.”

Dutch lifted his gaze and found himself drowning in hazel eyes. One of Hosea’s hands left the outlaw’s hair, moving down to undo the buttons that weren’t already open on the outlaw’s shirt, parting the fabric to feel his skin and the thick gathering of curls that adorned the broad chest. A shiver went through Dutch, the touch sending a jolt of heat through his stomach. Quick to return the favor, he brought his leg up so his knee was planted snugly between Hosea’s thighs and was pleased when a gasp escaped the conman’s mouth.

It had been nearly a month since they’d properly kissed, and longer still since they’d gone anywhere intimate, so Dutch was fully prepared to keep going unless Hosea told him to stop. About to suggest they _both_ get under the blankets, his request was interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming and then Arthur rushing into the room.

“We got a problem!” the young outlaw said, apparently so distracted that he didn’t even flinch at seeing his father figures in the middle of such a suggestive moment.

“What is it?” Dutch snapped, irritated at the disturbance. “If it’s the bears again, just lock the door and make sure John’s inside this time.”

“Oh, it ain’t bears.” Susan suddenly appeared at Arthur’s shoulder, shotgun in her hands. “Seems like a few of your friends are here to collect on some money, Dutch.”

“Red Jackson," Hosea gasped, and erupted into a flurry of coughs. Dutch pulled back, reluctantly drawing away from the bed to respond to this threat.

"Susan, take care of him,” he ordered. She nodded and moved to the bedside as Dutch hurried past Arthur, tapping the young man in the back as he did. "Arthur, with me."

In the main room, John was standing with a too-big rifle in white knuckled hands, watching the door. Through the window, a voice called clearly, “You coming out, van der Linde, or do we need to go in?”

“Keep an eye out,” Dutch said, touching John briefly on the shoulder before grasping the doorknob. “Wait for my signal,” he growled low at Arthur, and the young outlaw acknowledged the command with a single, sharp nod.

Red waited outside on horseback only a few meters from the deck, his men spread out to either side of him, all armed to the teeth and looking like they were ready to fight. Arthur did a quick head count as Dutch stepped out onto the deck and came to a halt at the top of the steps, Arthur a few feet behind him.

Six. Six adversaries in total against the four of them. Well, five if you counted Hosea, but Arthur was hoping the man wouldn't find the need to pick up a gun. His hand hovered over his own revolver as Dutch lifted his arms in the air; a show of submission.

"Fancy seeing you here, Red," the outlaw said, as amicably as if he didn't have numerous guns ready to shoot him down. "Would've thought you'd given up by now."

"Almost did." Red leaned forward in his saddle, pistol in his lap. "But then some local fellows said they'd seen activity at the abandoned ranch. I figured I might as well have a look, and wouldn't you know it? It's Dutch van der Linde hiding up here! And I bet you've still got the money too."

Dutch let out a laugh. "Hauling all that all the way up here? Naw, we spent most of it on equipment already."

Red let out a long sigh. "I heard about your partner, Dutch, heard he was real sick. Can't think of any reason why'd you'd still be lurking round here unless he was too ill to travel. No, I reckon you've still got the money...and you’re going to use it to get away from this place as soon as he’s well enough to leave."

As the bandit talked, Dutch's face had become darker and his hands sank so they were centimeters above the handles of his Schofields. "Well, I reckon you'd better leave here," he said in a low tone. "Cause I ain't about to give up what's mine."

Arthur's hands itched, almost trembling at the anticipation of drawing his guns. But he waited for Dutch. Red straightened up, sent one brief glance at Arthur, then looked Dutch in the eyes and said,

"Neither am I."

There was a short silence, a single, calm moment that hung in the air between the two sides, a quiet that so still that it rung like church bells in Arthur's ears.

He wasn't quite sure who pulled their trigger first, but his bets were on Dutch; the man was always keen to have things happen on his terms, even if it was a gunfight with bad odds. All he knew was that he was suddenly diving behind the deck railing, pistol out and aimed at Red’s men. Two of the bandits fell immediately, one to Dutch’s first shot, the other to Arthur’s, but the rest scattered, finding cover behind trees and the barn. Red leapt off his horse to crouch behind a rain barrel by the shed and Dutch turned his fire on the bandit leader at once. None of the bullets hit their mark, however, sinking into wood rather than flesh, and causing water to spill to the ground instead of blood. Safely concealed, Red emerged only long enough to send return fire toward the house along with his men.

Huddled behind a railing post that was almost too narrow for his broad shoulders, Arthur weighed their odds; with two bandits down that left only four, and that greatly increased their chances.

_‘Now all we gotta do is be careful and shoot well. We’ve survived worse odds before, we can do it agai-.’_

His inner monologue was cut short by a loud crack and the sound of shattering glass. Flinging himself down, he looked behind to see the window of the house was broken, destroyed by a bullet. The shards were scattered on the deck but none had hit him, so Arthur turned his attention back to the gunfight at hand.

_The shards were on the deck._

Leaping to his feet, Arthur ignored Dutch’s yell of _“GET DOWN, SON!”_ and stared through the empty windowpane to the opposite wall. The window there was broken too, the bullet having travelled from one side of the house to the other, and Arthur’s heart skipped a beat.

“Dutch!” he yelled, throwing himself to the ground again, “They’re at the back of the house!”

The outlaw pulled his trigger, swore at the miss, and looked to the young man. “What you say?”

“The window-!” Arthur ducked further, clutching his hat to his head, real fear creeping into his chest. “They’ve got us surrounded!”

-

Susan rose from the bedside when the shooting started, finger on the trigger of her shotgun, but didn't leave the room.

"Sounds like they're done talking it out," she announced. "Useless anyway."

"Talk doesn’t get people shot," Hosea said, and Susan shrugged.

"Sometimes it does."

They sat there for a tense few moments, listening to the gunfire being traded outside the window until John burst in, prompting Susan to raise the barrel of her gun before she recognized his face.

“They're 'round the back," the boy declared. "One just shot at me through the window!"

"Then we can't sit here any longer," Hosea said, pushing back the coverings so fast it was as if he had been waiting for the opportunity. About to rise, Susan's arm across his chest halted his movement and he shot her a look.

"I can either wait here for one of those bastards to break in and shoot me in this bed,” he said, “or I can fight. Dutch needs back up."

"If I let you up and you get shot or collapse, it won't be Red that kills me," Susan warned, but Hosea slapped her hand away.

"I won't be confined to bed by Dutch van der Linde in the middle of a shootout!" The conman swung his legs out of bed and opened the nightstand drawer to find his gunbelt. Buckling it around his waist, he held out his hand to John. "Give me your arm, my boy, I'm a bit unsteady."

"Oh, great," Susan grumbled, following them out into the big room. "Just wonderful!"

But she did not try further to stop him, instead taking up position by one of the windows while Hosea took the other, back pressed to the wall. They were careful to keep themselves concealed from the front of the house too, and Hosea motioned at the door.

"Watch that front entry, John. If they get through while our backs are turned...."

The boy nodded, crouching by the table, eyes glued to the door, and Hosea switched his attention to the backyard again. The window he was at had already been broken, and he used the jagged opening to send a shot at a man who was caught out in the open, unaware that anyone was shooting back from this angle. He fell to the ground, dead, and the others with him swiftly scattered to various places of cover.

"Oh no you don't!" Susan cried, smashing her own window. A loud blast from her shotgun and another bandit was down, not even given the chance to scream as the shell obliterated his skull.

The other bandits escaped such fates, at least for the time being, and the trading of shots went on for what seemed an agonizingly long time to Hosea. As he stopped for a moment to reload his revolver, he listened for gunfire from the front and was relieved to hear it loud and clear; Dutch and Arthur were still alive, or at least one of them was.

A wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the fight washed over him suddenly and he swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. It wouldn't do to succumb to the failings of his body now, no matter how much his lungs and muscles and brain screamed at him to _stop moving and lie down_. Slotting the last bullet into the barrel, he snapped it shut and looked out the window again. A few shots later and another man was down.

"Only two left back here," he called to Susan, and she made an animalistic growl response.

"I know, and one of the bastards is behind that wagon! Can't get a shot at him, but he's hitting the windowpane every time!"

Touching his gunbelt, Hosea counted the bullets there.

One. Two.

He had two chances to take these bandits down.

“John," he barked. "By Susan, now. Get behind the door, both of you."

The boy darted across the room, head low, and Susan slid a few inches to the side so her shoulder was beside the door's hinges. She grabbed John's collar, pulling him into her, and stared in alarm as Hosea unlatched the lock.

"What in the hell-?"

"Quiet," the conman hissed, taking up position next to them. He slid one of the bullets into a cattleman, the last in the other gun. They stood there silently, John's fingers curled in Susan's skirt, her arms wrapped tightly around him, and Hosea slid his foot to rest beside the boy’s, the only comforting motion he could risk.

 _'Dutch'll think we're dead,'_ he thought, _'but he'll have to suffer a while if we're gonna live.'_

He didn't dare look out the window, couldn't risk a glance to see if his plan was working, and for a painful few minutes he thought it hadn’t. However, when the door slowly creaked open, he knew their waiting had not been in vain. At his shoulder, Susan was as immobile as a statue, John trembling but silent and, as he took a step forward, Hosea prayed to God that the floorboards in this house didn't squeak.

The two bandits moved into the house without much caution, sure they had already felled their opponents inside. Their focus was on the front, where the pop and crack of gunfire could still be heard, and they did not see Hosea step out from hiding behind them. The conman's breath caught in his throat but he ignored the urge to cough, gritting his teeth again the claustrophobic tension building in his chest as he raised the revolvers to the men's heads.

"Hello, fellers," he snarled, spitting the words like fire, and pulled the triggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-; have i mentioned i love hosea


	8. Before Dawn

When the shooting inside the house abruptly stopped, Dutch’s heart nearly followed suit. Looking around, he saw Arthur too had heard, or rather, stopped hearing the gunfire. The young outlaw was busier trying to get a glimpse in through the window than focus on his own fight, and as much as Dutch wanted to do the same, he had a battle to win.

“Red!” he shouted, “You and your boys better give up if you want to walk away from here!”

He was talking nonsense and he knew it, and he knew Red did too. There was no guarantee of either side winning at this point. This standoff could last as long as the other side had ammo, and longer, if they were stubborn enough about it.

“Just give up, van der Linde,” Red called back. “I’ll let you and your family leave here unharmed if you hand over the money!”

“Can’t do that!” Dutch replied. “I need that cash!”

“So do I!”

Dutch watched as the bandit Arthur had recently been trying to hit sprinted out from behind a tree, making for his horse while the young outlaw was distracted. Dutch raised his pistol but was forced back into cover by Red sending a bullet that whistled by his neck and thudded into the wood of the house. Another glance into the yard told him that the bandit had succeeded in his flight, though Dutch wasn’t so sure it was an escape at all.

“I’ll have twenty more men here at dawn,” Red announced, confirming the outlaw’s fears. “When they get here…I won’t give you a second chance, Dutch.”

For all the grinding Dutch’s teeth did at the bandit’s declaration, none of it helped their situation; whether he shot down Red or not, more enemies would come and the small gang would be devastatingly outnumbered. If he just had a little time to think-.

Two clear gunshots rang out from inside the house, followed by Susan’s voice shouting words Dutch couldn’t make out, and that made up his mind for him. Rising to his feet, he shot recklessly with both Schofields, barking out: “Arthur! Get in the house, now!” as he moved toward the door. Arthur did as he was told, leaping up and opening the door behind Dutch, stumbling into the house with his gun drawn as the outlaw backed in at his heels, still shooting into the yard. After kicking the door closed, Dutch faced the room, absorbing the scene.

Two bandit corpses lay on the ground with a hole in each of their foreheads, no doubt the result of the two shots he’d heard, and John was latching the back door. Susan bent over Hosea, who was kneeling at the feet of the dead men with a cattleman revolver in each hand.

“Everyone alright?” Dutch asked, but his focus was primarily on Hosea, and he swiftly crouched in front of his partner. Holstering his guns, he took Hosea’s face in his hand and looked up at Susan.

“He okay?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” she said in response, tone angry. “I _told_ him to stay in bed, but no! He decided to join a gunfight.” She threw up her hands, exasperated, and turned her concerned fury on John and Arthur as Dutch took charge of Hosea. “You two! Keep watch and narrate _anything_ and _everything_ happening out there, you hear? If you can see it, you can report it!”

As the boys meekly conceded to her demands, Hosea lifted his gaze to Dutch’s face and presented a weak smile that sent the outlaw’s heart quivering with relief. “Don’t listen to her,” he said hoarsely. “She’s just mad I didn’t stay out of the shooting.” His eyes flickered to where Arthur stood near the window with his eyes trained outward. “Where’s Red?”

“Still out there, somewhere nearby.” Dutch shook his head. “He’s not giving up easy, but we’re safe for now. We have until morning at least.”

“What happens in the morning?”

Dutch felt the tension in Hosea’s body fade at the realization that there wouldn’t be any more fighting, at least for the time being. The outlaw didn’t doubt he was looking for an excuse to rest…the fact that he had pushed himself to last through the shootout was nothing to sneeze at, though Dutch had learned long ago that Hosea did not easily surrender to anything or anyone.

“Red gets more men at dawn,” he answered. “Until then…we have a little time to rest.”

“Thank God,” Hosea groaned, and the cattlemans slipped from his grasp to the wooden floorboards. “I need a…fucking…nap….”

His words slurred together, a precursor to his eyelids fluttering shut as he pitched forward into Dutch’s arms, cheek pushed up against the outlaw’s chest. Quick to gather up the conman in a secure embrace, Dutch asked, a little frantically,

“Hosea? Hosea, you still with me?”

“He’s dead?” John yelped from across the room, eyes wide, and Susan slapped the back of the boy’s head.

“No, you… you silly boy! He’s fainted, and I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, honestly!”

Hosea coughed then, eyes opening under heavy lids. “I’m here,” he wheezed, trying to sit up again. “Whazhapening?”

“He needs a fucking nap,” Arthur said, momentarily shifting his gaze from the window to his father figures. The statement coaxed a smile to Dutch’s face.

“Damn right he does,” the outlaw said, trapping Hosea against his side. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Don’t you start,” Hosea mumbled, slumping back to Dutch’s chest before letting out a coarse wheeze that made the others cringe. “Just need- a break- to catch my breath.”

Susan moved forward, saying, “I’ll help get him to bed,” but Dutch shook his head.

“No. I want us all in this room tonight. I won’t have us scattered around the house while we got men outside looking for an opportunity to kill us.”

“Then I’ll grab blankets and pillows.” Susan changed her stride, heading into the bedroom. By this time Hosea was almost drifting off in Dutch’s arms, and the outlaws shifted a little, situating himself so he could hold Hosea with one arm and reach his revolver with his dominant hand, should he need it.

“Arthur, John,” he said, capturing their attention. “Board up these windows with whatever you can; I want one left open in the front. I’ll help you as soon as Hosea’s settled.”

Without a word of complaint or question, the boys set about tearing apart the table and ripping cabinet doors from the walls for boards. John held them up over the windows while Arthur pounded them into place using nails pulled from the floorboards and the heel of his boot. As soon as Susan returned with an armful of comfortable necessities, and Hosea was lying propped up on most of them, Dutch joined the young outlaws in their task. Susan and John dragged a set of drawers in front of the back door, pushing it snugly against the exit and, lastly, Dutch and Arthur carried the bodies of the two dead bandits into the bedroom and closed the door between.

“I’ll think of something,” Dutch promised them as the final bit of sunlight faded from the sky. “Before dawn, I’ll think of something. I _will_ get us out of this.”

-

The night wore on. It wasn’t too long after they’d gotten their fort set up that Arthur saw lamplight coming from the barn. Red and the remainder of his men were holed up in there the same way Dutch’s group was staked out in the house, just waiting. The difference was that Red was waiting for backup while Dutch was banking on coming up with a plan before Red didn’t need to wait any longer.

Arthur worried about the horses for a little while, knowing they were stabled in the barn, but Susan assured him that there was no reason for the bandits to harm the animals.

“What good would it do?” she asked as she glared out the window. “We can’t get to them anyway.”

All they could do was sit and think and hope that _someone_ thought of something before dawn. Sitting up by the window, gun in his lap, Arthur let out a quiet sigh.

“What time is it?” he whispered to Dutch, who was sitting in a chair nearby. The outlaw had the seat tipped back, leaning against the wall and had been staring at the wooden ceiling for the past hour, eyes studying the knots and whorls as if they could provide the answers he needed. At Arthur’s question, he glanced down at the pocketwatch resting in his palm.

“Half past midnight,” he grumbled quietly, and returned to staring at the ceiling.

They had roughly four hours. Arthur looked back out the window toward the barn. He couldn’t see if there was anyone standing guard by the door, but he guessed Red would have someone keeping watch same as them. It had begun to rain, and the drops combined with the black of night made it almost impossible to see anything at all.

He turned his head back to the room. He and Dutch were the only ones awake now; Susan was sleeping with her back against the dresser, as if she could help secure the back door by being there. John was curled up like a puppy next to Hosea, his messy black hair the only part of him that was visible under the blanket.

“We can’t take on twenty men, Dutch,” he said after a short while. “It’d take a miracle we ain’t got.”

“I know it.” Dutch’s brow pulled into a frown and his arms crossed over his chest, fingers curled tight around the watch, thumb fiddling with the chain. “We’ve got to _surprise_ them. Show ‘em what we’re capable of.”

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what things they were capable of that Red’s twenty men weren’t, but he didn’t ask. He glanced out the window again. “We shouldn’t’ve robbed that bank.”

He didn’t know himself why he said it. Maybe he was fed up with this dance that Dutch was doing with Red. Maybe he was just tired. When he spoke, however, he felt Dutch’s eyes on him, boring into the back of his skull.

“Is that what you think?”

Dutch’s tone was light, almost conversational, but Arthur didn’t miss the small break at the end, the warning. He should just shut up now; an argument with Dutch never ended well. He always hated how he felt afterwards…small and guilty.

But he was tired, and moody, and he’d spent far too long with the weight of Hosea’s illness on his shoulders. He wanted this all to _end_.

“Why’d we rob it if we knew Red was gonna come after us? He ain’t no small fry outlaw.”

The sound of the chair legs landing on the floor was uncomfortably loud in the quiet room. “We _had_ a plan to leave quick. Circumstances made our lyin’ low a little more difficult.”

Arthur put his chin in his hand, eyes trailing a raindrop as it traveled down the windowpane. It caught on the edge of the broken glass and hung, suspended. “Still was a stupid idea,” he mumbled before he could check his words.

The raindrop quivered in the air for a brief moment then plummeted, landing in a pool of a hundred others on the windowsill, the addition of this single drop just enough to send a stream of water off the sill and onto the floor beside Arthur’s boot.

Dutch said nothing.

This rare silence was a thing so odd that Arthur turned around again to see why Dutch didn’t try to set him straight right then and there, going off about how _if they didn’t act upon their wills then what was the purpose of living?_ Or some speech like that.

But the outlaw’s gaze was not on him but rather on John, who had sat up and was rubbing sleep from his eyes. The boy got to his feet and shuffled across the floor to the water pitcher, still wrapped up in his blanket.

Arthur swallowed his anger. What was done was done, and they were here now, and the most important thing was making sure they all made it out alive.

“I’ll keep watch,” Dutch said quietly, after John lay back down. He took the rifle from Arthur’s hand, shooing the young outlaw off the chair. “Get some sleep.”

Arthur sat down on a blanket, took his hat off and set it beside him, but did not remove his belt or boots. The night was uncertain…and the dawn would be even more so. Settling back, he folded his hands over his stomach, listening to the drum of rain on the rooftop and Susan’s deep breaths that were not quite snores.

“I didn’t really want to argue,” he said softly to the air, and the floorboards under Dutch’s chair squeaked.

“Neither do I, son. Now get some rest; I’ll wake you when I need you.”

Reassured, Arthur allowed his eyes to close and did his best to drift off into a peaceful sleep.

-

John woke to birds singing outside and Hosea fiddling with his hair. His head was resting on the conman’s leg- how long had he been lying like that? -but Hosea wasn’t looking at him, distracted by whatever Dutch and Arthur were talking about by the window. In the small space of time where his waking wasn’t noticed yet, John studied Hosea’s face.

The man had been a puzzle to him when they first met. John had never known someone who could have so many faces and switch between them with such ease. It had unnerved him at first…unlike Dutch, who presented every thought and feeling on his face. Dutch’s emotions were part of his style, his fashion, but Hosea was far more subtle. After the past year with his new family, however, he had begun to pick out which faces were a show or cover, and which faces were _Hosea_. Right now, staring up at the conman’s face, John could see the mask of ease he was wearing, probably for Arthur’s sake. Hosea wore a lot of faces for Arthur and Dutch, John had noticed, all genuine, but all covering up some personal sadness or struggle he wanted to keep from the others’ shoulders.

Yesterday he’d watched Hosea enter a shootout and he _knew_ he had not been alright or in any condition to be gunfighting, but not once after the shooting began did he think Hosea could not handle himself. He had not seen him falter or crack until the end, despite the fact that he should have been wailing in pain the entire time.

How many times he’d looked at Hosea and only got part of what the man was truly feeling?

The idea made him uncomfortable and he ducked away from the hand in his hair, sitting up and rubbing sleepy seeds from the corners of his eyes. Hosea turned to him then and smiled.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Awful,” John muttered, recalling the moments where he’d only been half asleep, or not asleep at all. That had been most of the night. He vaguely remembered getting up once to find Arthur and Dutch arguing, but everything was a sleepy blur. The boarded-up windows didn’t help, distorting any ideas of what time that may have been at, or what time it was now.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked, looking around. Susan was cleaning her gun, Arthur and Dutch were conversing…he was the last one up, it seemed, and felt a little left out. Had they been making plans without him? “What’re we doin’?”

“Dutch isn’t quite sure yet.” Hosea leaned against the wall, gaze moving to the man in question, and the outlaw looked over at the sound of his name. Their eyes met, though Dutch continued speaking with Arthur, and John wondered what was being said in that silent connection across the room. Hosea’s gaze flicked back to John. “How are you doing?”

John shrugged. “Fine.”

That was a lie, obviously. None of them were actually fine at the moment, but John figured it could be worse. He could be hurt, or dead, from the gunfight yesterday. Or be hung for the bank robbery, or still standing by that bridge waiting for someone to come get him, or Dutch could be in jail or Hosea could still be dying or he could have run away from Arthur in that hotel and never come back and be all alone in-.

“John?”

“I’m not scared of dyin’,” he blurted out, then looked down, frowning at his lap.

“Oh?” Hosea’s tone was gentle, without mockery. He smiled again and it was a real smile, or real enough for John to find comfort in it.

“I’m not,” the boy insisted. _‘I’m not scared of dying…I just don’t want you to die. That’s not the same thing.’_

He’d spent the last month thinking Hosea would die! He weren’t being sappy or anything…it was just, just… _normal_ to be worried. Wasn’t it?

“Okay,” Hosea said, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind the boy’s ear. “I’ll take your word for it.”

A little smile snuck up on John’s face before he could help it, reflecting the warmth in Hosea’s eyes. All at once he felt the urge to hug the older man and hold on tight for a long time, but before he could consider it further, Dutch faced the room, catching their attention. His eyes were dark and glittering in the firelight as he announced,

“Everyone. I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, Dutch has got a plan.
> 
> I was really tempted to name this chapter Until Dawn, but that's kind of a spooky game and completely unrelated, so I refrained. 
> 
> Also, it's my birthday today and finishing this fic in a timely manner was a gift to myself. Final chapter coming soon :3


	9. A New Sunrise

The sky was colored a soft, dark purple when Dutch opened the door of the ranch house and stepped out onto the deck with his hands raised in the air. At his shoulder, Arthur’s heart was like a wild horse stampeding his chest, but he kept his rifle low and non-threatening. He could practically feel the other three’s eyes burning holes in his back as he and Dutch stood just beyond the doorway, their torsos open and bared for any bullets that could be sent their way.

If it had been anyone else, Arthur would have called them stupid, or downright crazy, for coming up with such a risky plan. Their chances of survival were already low, and if Arthur had been a bit more pessimistic, he would have said their fates were sealed and death was the only way out.

But this was Dutch’s plan, and Dutch had a way of working things out and shaping situations around himself so when the dice rolled and cards were played…they almost always landed in his favor.

Arthur just hoped this was one of those times.

 _‘Think positive,’_ he said to himself as Dutch called out across the yard,

“Red Jackson, come out here! I have a proposition to make!”

There was a short silence in which Arthur couldn’t hear much more than the thundering rush of blood in his ears. When the barn door cracked open he instinctively flinched, but Dutch turned his head just a fraction, a subtle reassurance, and he lowered the rifle again.

Red himself stepped out, hands on his belt but not his guns, and Dutch relaxed his own arms. The bandit walked across the grass before stopping midway between the two buildings. Two of his men were at his side, both as armed and alert as Arthur was.

“Handing over the money, are you, Dutch?” Red asked, his grin showing he thought otherwise. “It’s not yet dawn.”

Arthur glanced up at the sky. The violet was fast becoming pink, and already the soft orange glow of sunrise was beginning to show. Red’s men would be arriving any moment, if the bandit’s words held true. He looked back to Dutch, who had moved forward to the top of the steps.

“Look at us,” the outlaw said. “Two wanted men…arguing over some stolen money. One of us is sure to get shot, the other will ride off with the law on his heels. They’d make a dime novel out of us if they could.”

Red chuckled. “Who says they won’t?” he said, but then his face became serious again. “What are we standing out here for, Dutch? As you say…one of us going to get shot. Maybe more than one of us, but you know my side will win.”

“You’ve started the conversation I came out here to have.” Dutch lifted an arm, gesturing toward the bandit. “You have twenty men coming for me and my family! Over something they had no part in! Did all those men help you withn the bank robbery? No. Did Arthur here know you was planning to rob that bank when he did it? Arthur, did you?”

When the young outlaw dutifully shook his head, Dutch made another motion with his hand, as if driving the point home. “Exactly! What I’m saying, Red, is that this disagreement is between you and me. So why don’t we behave like men and settle it?”

Red’s eyes narrowed and he glanced over his shoulder at his men, as if to affirm he had heard right before looking back at Dutch. “Are you challenging me to a duel?” he asked, doubtful.

“Like the dime novel gunslinger I am,” Dutch replied, but his tone no longer held the lightheartedness of easy banter. He spoke deliberately, with a deadly seriousness that was so heavy, Arthur could almost see the words in the air between the two men; a challenge that was waiting to be accepted.

Red looked unsure, almost reluctant, and one of his men leaned in to say something in his ear, but the bandit waved him away. “Alright, van der Linde,” he said, “I agree to your fight.”

Having half-expected Red to laugh and simply shoot Dutch dead on the spot, Arthur felt a single bubble of tension pop in his chest. He thought he saw Dutch’s lips part in a quiet sigh of relief, and wondered what sort of emotions the outlaw was feeling at that moment….

-

“Why don’t we just give Red the money?”

Dutch peered out the window again before facing Hosea. The conman had cornered him by the door while he waited for Arthur to finish prepping his rifle for the confrontation, though he hoped the boy wouldn’t have to use it.

“Because it’s not about the _money_ ,” Dutch replied, feeling for his guns as if they’d escaped their holsters in the few moments since he last checked them. “It’s about showing _him_ that we’re not some bumbling yokels that he can rob from.”

“He was going to hit that bank first and we knew it,” Hosea said, unmoved. “You can’t exactly blame him for coming after us.”

Dutch waved a hand. “It’s about making a _statement_ , Hosea, for both of us. There’s a lot of shame in backing down for a man like Red Jackson.”

Hosea didn’t seem convinced, something Dutch wanted to change before he walked outside with a high possibility of dying. In his last moments, if they were indeed that, he’d much rather have Hosea trusting in him than thinking him a fool.

“Think,” he said, rushing his words as he saw Arthur finishing up his work, “We let Red take the money now, free and easy, and then what? He comes after us again, but this time it’s not because we robbed a stage he was planning on hitting, no. He’s after us because he knows that, with a little pushing, he can get us to hand it over. Do you want Red Jackson following us like a dog looking for scraps our entire lives? Do you want to rob a house and wonder when he’ll turn up, asking for a cut of it? Because I promise you, _that_ is what’s going to happen if I don’t go out there right now and face him.”

He finished the speech with a flourish, pointing at the door and what lay beyond to emphasize his point. Standing in front of him, arms crossed and brow furrowed, Hosea still didn’t look happy, but it was apparent that most of the resistance had left him.

“Fine.” The conman let out a small cough and winced at the discomfort, but waved Dutch’s hand away, instead sinking into the chair by the window. “I’ll trust you on this. But you better be the faster draw.”

“I’m planning on it,” Dutch replied, Hosea’s approval of his strategy only bolstering his confidence. He leaned down, kissing his partner on the lips quickly before pulling away as Arthur joined them.

“Ready, Dutch.”

“Let’s go then.” The outlaw grasped the door handled and, with a final glance at Hosea, pushed out into the chilly morning air.

Now he was facing Red, whose hands were no longer at his belt but hanging at his sides, loose and ready. Slowly, Dutch descended the deck stairs, the wood creaking under his boots the only sound besides birds singing too cheerily in the trees. When he reached the grass of the yard, Red’s men swiftly moved to the side and Arthur did the same, leaving the bandit and the outlaw staring each other down.

“Last chance,” Red warned. “You can walk away, Dutch.”

“Go for your gun, Red,” Dutch replied, his dark gaze boring into the bandit’s eyes.

The world surrounding them faded away. For Dutch it was only him and Red in the universe, standing alone together in emptiness. No bandits, no Arthur, no house, and no distractions. He made the man his sole focus, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. Red’s shoulders tensed and every muscle in Dutch’s body screamed out to draw his gun, but he fought the impulse and waited.

A second that took minutes ticked by. The quiet was now filled with the beating of his own heart and his throat was as dry as sandpaper and just as rough, every fraction of time that passed only making it worse until…

Red’s finger twitched, a miniscule amount, but in the vast nothingness Dutch had drawn himself into, the movement was as plain as daylight breaking over the horizon.

He thought- he though _too_ much sometimes, and it didn’t always help, so he stopped thinking and _acted_.

Time slowed to nothing.

Reflex brought his revolver to his hand, every sense pinpointing on the trigger and along the barrel even as Red did the same and _he needed to be faster_ but he was so very slow, and the only thing he could feel was the weight of the metal in his hand, the heavy, heavy, weight that seemed too much to lift but he _did lift it_ and _aimed_ -

The click of the trigger and the bang of the shot were painfully loud to Dutch’s ears, and time rushed forward to meet him so the world came crashing back at a glaring rate of speed. He was suddenly aware of the gunsmoke in the air and on his tongue, of Arthur and the bandits raising their guns but not shooting, and of Red still standing before him...holding his injured hand and staring at his pistol on the ground several feet away.

Lowering his revolver, Dutch let out a long shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d taken in. “Now,” he said, tone cool, “I’ll ask you to leave us alone, Red. I think I’ve more than proved myself to you.”

He could feel elation bubbling up in his chest as he spoke the words. He’d done it! His plan had worked _and_ he didn’t have to deal with a bunch of angry bandits trying to get revenge over their leader’s demise. It took all he had not to spin around and grin toward the doorway where he knew Hosea was watching. No, he had to remain composed and aloof. _He_ was a leader too, after all…there was a reputation to maintain. Would anyone hear of this fight? he wondered. Would Red go and tell of Dutch van der Linde, the man who could have killed him but spared his life? _“What a daring soul,”_ the bandit would say to other outlaws over shots of whiskey. _“Now there is a real man, a true leader. I wouldn’t cross his path if I were-.”_

“Sorry, Dutch,” Red said, breaking into his thoughts, and the man’s fantasies came tumbling down around him. “Fair’s fair, but…we’re outlaws, aren’t we?”

“Look out!” Arthur said then, leveling his gun toward the path, and Dutch stared in dismay as a large number of horses cantered up the way, emerging from the trees to gather in the yard. When they had assembled, most of the bandits turned their weapons on the outlaw, who raised his hands with fury coiling in his stomach.

One of the men leapt from his horse and crossed to Red, saying, “What do you want us to do, boss?”

The fiery anger in Dutch collided headlong into ice-cold fear at the question. His imagination was filled with things the bandits could do, first and foremost being to kill every single member of Dutch’s family, but Red didn’t give any such order. Instead, he walked to where his gun lay, picked it up and holstered it, then strolled to stand in front of Dutch. Victory was practically rolling off the man in waves and Dutch wrinkled his nose against it; triumph that had seemed so appealing only moments ago now made his stomach churn.

“Now,” Red said, just as cool as Dutch had been, “I’ll ask you to show us to the money.”

“Over my dead body,” the outlaw snarled instinctively, and Red raised his eyebrows.

“No,” he replied, and his eyes went to the house. “I think there are other bodies to fell before reaching yours.” The bandit sighed then and looked to Arthur, who was still holding the rifle up to his shoulder. “And I recommend you drop it, son. Don’t be foolish now.”

Arthur did, dropping the barrel so it pointed at the ground, but only after meeting Dutch’s eyes and receiving a small nod from the outlaw. A bandit quickly removed the weapon from the young man’s grasp and set a pistol up against his side. Red turned back to Dutch with a smile that the outlaw returned in the form of a scowl.

“Alright, get him inside,” the bandit leader ordered, motioning at Arthur. The young outlaw shrugged off the guiding hand on his shoulder as he was pushed to the house. “Make sure everyone in there is accounted for and disarmed! Mr. van de Linde is going to show me where he’s hidden the money.”

“Fine,” Dutch spat, wishing he could punch Red in the gut so maybe the bandit would experience the same ache he was feeling right then. “Follow me.”

Red made to do so, then paused and turned back toward the house. “Oh, and get Mr. Matthews out here, would you? Keep him on the steps and wait there…can’t have him pulling any tricks with the others.”

All hope Dutch had of salvaging this rapidly disintegrating situation disappeared like fog in a stiff breeze. As Red and two others escorted him around to the back of the barn, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw a bandit pull Hosea out the door none too gently and his fists clenched where he had them lifted in the air, but there was nothing to be done now.

It didn’t take long for the bandits to dig the money up from where Arthur had buried it, and Red laughed over the fact that he could have gotten it any time over the course of the night, had he known it was here. Dutch stood to the side and watched, his rage turning more and more to embarrassment with every _thunk_ of the shovel into dirt.

Soon enough the money was loaded up on horses that were brought around, and Red clapped Dutch on the shoulder before getting into his saddle. “Don’t take it personally. You’re young yet; there will be plenty more scores.”

“Your words heal me,” the outlaw replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Red sighed.

“Don’t blame me for your mistakes; you knew what you risked when you robbed that bank.” The bandit nodded to his men and they took off, carrying the money away down the path and out of sight. A whistle sounded and Dutch heard the bandits round the front began trotting away as well, briefly coming into view before vanishing into the trees. 

“Just be glad you walked away from this. That little stint with the duel….” The bandit glanced at his hand, bound in a strip of cloth. “You may have saved yourself with that plan. But you killed my men, so a word of advice? Keep a sharp eye and have a ready gun when next we meet.” Touching his horse with his heels, Red tipped his hat to the outlaw. “Farewell, Dutch.”

His horse trotted out to join the last of the men riding away from the ranch, and Dutch was tempted to grab his guns and just shoot, but he held himself steady and watched as the last of the bandits disappeared around a bend in the path. The clearing was silent then, and Dutch was alone, standing behind the barn beside a gaping hole that stared at him like a large, mocking eye.

_‘Or a mouth that is open in laughter.’_

Dragging a hand down his face, Dutch stared out at the empty path. Losing the money…that he could take. There would be more money, more banks to rob and a lot more rich folks to swindle. The humiliation was another matter entirely, one he wasn’t sure how to deal with. Already it was eating him up inside, and he wondered how much work it would take to rebuild whatever reputation he had just lost. They’d need to do something big, something dramatic…a real show that would have people saying ‘How did they get away with it?’ An event that outshone Red’s pitiful haul of money and _really tested_ their skills so they could-.

“Dutch? Dutch?”

He was yanked out of his spiraling thoughts by the voice calling to him, and suddenly remembered- the others, Arthur, _Hosea_ -and set off at a sprint around the barn. He turned the corner at high speed only to crash directly into Hosea, who was also running as fast as he could, it seemed. They nearly toppled to the ground, but Dutch grabbed Hosea around the middle, keeping them upright.

“Why the hell are you running, old girl?”

“Why the hell are you lurking behind the barn?” Hosea replied, resting his hands on Dutch’s chest. “Red’s men left so suddenly; weren’t sure if he’d bashed you over the skull with a shovel just to rub it in our faces.”

Dutch shook his head, tightening his grip on the conman. “No, he just took the money and went. Guess that’s all he really cared about.” He hung his head, frowning at the buttons on Hosea’s shirt. “I…I did us wrong, Hosea. I shoulda known we weren’t safe here, I shoulda had us move on sooner. Now we ain’t got any money to make travel easier.” His words became quieter, each admission a little harder to get out. “Maybe…maybe we should never have robbed that damn bank at all.”

“We all make mistakes,” Hosea said warmly. “You’re not excused from this human flaw.” He touched Dutch’s cheek, prompting him to look up into hazel eyes. “I love you anyway.”

He kissed Dutch tenderly and the outlaw gave in to the gentle action. Through the haze of shame still lingering about him, the kiss reminded him that, no matter how many doubts he had about himself, his actions… Hosea would be there to dispel those misgivings.

“I love you too,” he replied against Hosea’s lips, a little aggressively perhaps, for the conman suddenly gripped his shirt in a fist and pulled away to rest his forehead on the outlaw’s shoulder. “Whoa, you okay there?”

“I have a devil of a headache,” the conman groaned. “Can’t…can’t breathe so good neither with you holding on like I’m going to drift away.”

Dutch loosened his grip at once but didn’t let go completely. “I’d sorta forgotten about that.” Shifting his grasp so he was supporting Hosea rather than suffocating him, he started them toward the house. “We didn’t get much rest these past twenty-four hours.”

“Better than being dead,” Hosea pointed out and Dutch, of course, had to agree.

As they approached the front door, it swung open wide and Arthur came barreling out from inside. He pounded down the steps and came to a halt in front of his fathers, boot heels skidding in the damp grass. “You’re-you’re okay,” he gasped in relief. “I’m sorry, sorry I couldn’t do nothin’ to-.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hosea said at the same time Dutch replied,

“Don’t apologize, son,” and they both pulled him into their arms. Stiff for a moment, Arthur soon melted into the embrace, and John came darting from the door, yelling,

“I hate you all!” before crashing into the small gap between Arthur and Hosea. Shoving his face into the cloth of their shirts, he said in a muffled voice, “Ya’ll scared me.”

Dutch huffed out a laugh, suddenly feeling _okay_ again, and reached over to muss up the boy’s already tousled hair. “Sorry, my boy,” he said, and Hosea put his free arm around John’s shoulders, hand resting on Arthur’s back.

“All in a day in the life, eh, my dears?”

In the doorway, Susan watched this familial exchange with crossed arms and a shake of her head. Her exasperated appearance was greatly diminished under the large smile on her face.

“You four,” she said softly, fondly. “I dread the day that the universe breaks you apart.”

-

-

-

“Arthur, you find my pocketwatch?”

“Yeah, I got it with me!”

“Give it here!”

Arthur jogged over to the wagon, digging into his pants pocket for a moment before handing the watch up to Dutch in the driver’s seat. “It was on the table.”

“I swear I looked there ten times.” The outlaw shoved the trinket into his vest and looked around the yard. “Where’s John?”

“Double-checking that we got everything,” Hosea replied from where he was going over a map next to Dutch. “Look here, what do you think of this trail out? It’s off the main road and should allow us to avoid too many travelers.”

“What’s the terrain like?” Dutch replied, leaning in. “Don’t want to have you bumping over every rock and tree root.”

“I’m sick, not old and feeble!”

“Not yet, ol' girl, not yet!”

As they teased and bickered and ultimately discussed the route, Arthur went around the back of the wagon to find Susan heaving a crate of food into the back. The young outlaw leapt up into the wagon and dragged the supplies in as the woman wiped her brow with a sleeve.

“That’s the last of it,” she announced, letting Arthur help her into the wagon, where she sat down on a pile of folded blankets. “Where’s that boy?”

“Still inside,” Arthur said, sticking his head out from under the covering they’d erected over the back of the wagon. “MARSTON. We’re leavin’ without you!”

“I’m comin’!” John hollered, coming out the house waving his arm. “Ya forgot your pencil, Morgan!”

“Well, thanks,” Arthur replied as John ran up to the back and handed the writing utensil over. He shoved it into his satchel and hauled the boy up. John dug around in a crate, looking for something as Arthur doublechecked the ties hooking Jalapeno and Buckwheat to the wagon, then rapped on the wood, calling,

“We’re all set back here!”

“Okay!” Dutch said, flicking the reins to get María and Maarav walking. “Here we go!”

Susan opened a book, settling back against a crate as John tossed Arthur an apple for the road and took one for himself as he sat down beside his brother. In the front seat, Hosea folded the map and tucked it under the seat as the horses started down the path at a measured pace.

“So…Colorado?”

“Colorado,” Dutch echoed. He switched his grasp on the reins to one hand so he could pull the front of the Hosea’s coat shut against the cool morning air. The conman smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to his partner’s cheek, but Dutch turned his head, catching it with his lips instead. Letting out a chuckle, Hosea rested his head on the outlaw’s shoulder, shifting a little closer on the seat.

As the sun rose higher into the early morning sky, the wagon rolled away from the homestead, leaving nothing for John and Arthur to say farewell to as they sat with their legs swinging out the back, crunching loudly on apples. They didn’t watch the house fade into the trees, too caught up in conversation and speculation of the future. It had simply been another stop, another short rest before they moved on again… for as long as they’d been together, everything in that wagon was all the home they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I do love sappy endings, I can't help myself.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuaT8BiLSIM Sounds of Wood by Florian Bur  
> ^^^ Listen to this and read the final scene to feel the mood I had while writing it ^^^
> 
> This whole story was a joy to write. I just kept getting new ideas as I went along, lol. THANK YOU to all who left comments alone the way- you guys don't know how much you boosted my spirits and inspiration to keep writing. <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


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